i'll hold your tears as ransom
by IconofSelfIndulgence
Summary: Thomas gets some well-needed time off, but when he encounters an old war time acquaintance, he attracts the attention of homophobic farmer. WARNINGS: depictions of violence, torture, and homophobia.
1. i'll hold your tears as ransom

A/N: I couldn't keep this idea out of my head. Thanks to everyone who told me I should write it. I think I'll be ripping your hearts out. xo

* * *

The morning was bright and cheerful. The sun shined brightly, making the dewy grass glisten. Thomas couldn't imagine why he was in such a good mood, but as he sat in the car, accompanying Lord Grantham and Branson to a possible expansion of property in Borrowby. His Lordship had approached him the night before, asking if he wanted to join them. He was unsure of his employer's intention, but he couldn't say no to an adventure, especially after all the gloom at Downton.

Borrowby was quaint, small. Named by the Dutch, if Thomas remembered correctly. He'd been here before, sometimes while taking a day off to Thirsk, but they were venturing away from the town to a large abandoned farm. They would be staying for a couple of days, Branson said, so he was more than welcome to go stay in an inn in town. He and Lord Grantham could manage to themselves.

"So, you have no need for a valet?"

"Oh, it's no need, Thomas—" Branson caught himself, "Mr. Barrow. I'm sure Robert and I can dress ourselves for a few days."

"Mr. Branson," The words almost burned on his tongue, but Thomas knew when to show respect and when not to, "Can you tell me something? Why did you two bring me along?"

Tom smiled at him before glancing over his shoulder to see Lord Grantham speaking to a groundskeeper. "Lord Grantham thought you might like a holiday after the whole incident at the fair. He believes you were very brave to protect James after all that happened between you."

The under-butler was genuinely and pleasantly shocked. He'd be damned if he said Robert Crawley was a bad man. He nodded his head, understanding. So, he had a couple of days to himself. How absolutely, bloody wonderful and well needed! After he and Jimmy called a truce and became friends, Thomas found it hard to be around him still, considering he still felt overwhelming compassion for that little blond. He was hoping to get a half-day soon so he could go and find something to take him off his mind, and this was his chance.

In fact, his first intention was to find a nice man – if only to flirt with him. He found his was becoming more chaste in his older age. Then again, in a job where celibacy is almost a requirement, how could he not? He hadn't a decent lay in ages, not since his last rendezvous to London with Lord Grantham, and that had been well over a year ago now. Perhaps it would do him some good, though he wasn't hopeful. (He found he didn't get his hopes up often these days after _the incident_. It was better that way.)

So, he ventured into town. Thomas adjusted his fedora, glancing at the hustle and bustle of the little town. There was a nice atmosphere around, and on top of that no one knew who he was. He could be anyone here, charm anyone… This was going to be a nice couple of days.

That was, until, he heard a voice that made him realize he wasn't so invisible to the crowd. "Sergeant Barrow?"

Thomas froze. It had been a _long_ time he had heard that title before his name. He realized he hadn't changed much in the four or so years, but it was still shocking to come across someone who remembered him from his hospital days. At least it wasn't a face from the front who may remember how much of a _coward_ he had been. He turned to face the man who called him, and he couldn't help but feel a strong sense of déjà vu when he gazed upon those beautiful features.

He was no Edward Courtenay, but the man before him was Second Lieutenant Callum Tyler, an officer who had been wounded – _stabbed with a bayonet several times in various areas _– and stayed at the hospital and Downton's convalescent home throughout the war. Gentle hazel eyes met his own, and he tried to remember what Tyler did for a living. He knew he was a high-ranking member of society—perhaps a solicitor of some sort—but it didn't matter, did it? What brought him to Borowby?

It was then he realized how rude he was being, staring at the man without a word for at least a minute. "Second Lieutenant Tyler." He greeted with a curt nod, unable to hide his unease at the encounter. He had lucked out mostly in Ripon and Thirsk. Many men who had been at war there were not ones he were well acquainted with, so he didn't have terrible flashbacks and nightmares—not that this man could bring his dark memories back, could he? Not with those enchanting eyes…

"A sight for sore eyes," Tyler said, reaching out his arm to shake Thomas' hand. The under-butler returned the gesture, grateful that he was in his street clothes and not his livery. "I trust you've been well?"

The sense of camaraderie he was getting from Tyler was not unwelcomed, but it was strange. He had not been necessarily close to any of the soldiers after Lieutenant Courtenay's death, nor had he really spoken to this man besides the usual checkups and some small talk every now and then. Thomas supposed he hadn't seen anyone from the war in a while for him to be so cordial to a man that was so under his own rank. He still shook his hand in greeting and tried not to smile when the touch lingered. "As well as I can be, I suppose. How about you?" He squeezed the man's hand briefly before pulling away, "The wounds heal all right?"

"Mostly. Major Clarkson said I'd be walking with a limp for the rest of my life. He's been right so far, but it's nothing to complain about." Callum rested a hand against his thigh. Thomas could remember the wound vividly now; it had been badly torn, and Clarkson had considered amputating the leg. But it had begun to heal nicely in time, so Tyler got to keep his leg. Thomas couldn't imagine not having a leg. It was bad enough having his little handicap with his hand from time to time in the bad weather. "I'm just happy to be alive."

"Here, here." Thomas said, tilting his hat down at the gesture.

A comfortable silence fell between them. If Thomas hadn't been trying this new chaste thing, he would have noticed that the other was practically undressing him with his eyes. Though he did take notice that the former Second Lieutenant before him was a very attractive man. His light brown hair was styled in a little wave, reflective of the new, changing styles. He wore a navy suit that cut him perfectly—the man must have had money. And there Thomas was with the one suit he considered his favorite, since he saved quite a sum of money to purchase it. (This was before the black-market scandal, so you could imagine how old the bloody thing was.) He cleared his throat, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. "So, what brings you to Borrowby, Mr. Tyler?"

"Oh, please. Call me Callum. I think you have all the right to, Sergeant—"

"_Thomas_, then." He smiled in return.

"Thomas." Callum tried on his Christian name and nodded. It would do quite nicely. "I'm here for a business meeting, actually. Lord Grantham of Downton, I'm sure you remember him, is here to inquire about the abandoned farmland on the outskirts of the town."

Of course he was. Oh, no. Thomas hoped that the question wouldn't be turned back on him.

"And you?"

Shit. "What a coincidence, really. I'm under-butler to his Lordship." He gave him a lopsided, slightly embarrassed smile. There was nothing wrong being in the working class, but he just felt the need to impress Callum. That wouldn't be likely now… "I'm here for a short holiday and to take care of any needs during his stay."

"Ah, very good! What a coincidence, indeed. Say, would you want to get a pint later? I've got to run now," Callum checked his pocket watch before turning back to Thomas. "But I'd be delighted to catch up—er—to hear what you've been up to ever since the war."

Thomas was absolutely chuffed. Maybe running into someone he knew (only barely, his mind added) would be a good thing after all. "Sounds good to me."

"I'll meet you at the Wren's Nest around—say—eight?"

* * *

These last couple of hours made him jittery and nervous. Thomas didn't know what to think. He didn't want to be reading too deeply into the man's gestures, because the last time that happened, he nearly ended up losing his job and home. But Callum just seemed too friendly, too … he wasn't like Jimmy. There was something there between them; Thomas had felt it. But he didn't want to go to the bar and end up making a fool of himself, or worse. He paced around his room at the inn, considering whether or not to put on a different suit—

'Oh, bloody _hell_, Thomas. Relax!' Thomas scolded himself mentally, rubbing his hands over his face. This was just a conversation with an old war buddy. Nothing more.

And how wrong he was. Callum sat so close to him in the back of the pub. They hid away in one of the booths, knees touching. The older man (not so much older, Thomas learned, but still _older_) whispered in his ear about little things, experiencing life again when he left the convalescent home. He also spoke of finding it hard to cope for a while, but it due time it had all ended up just fine. Thomas was hesitant to share his own stories, but he did after a couple of drinks, even spilling out the story of the Jimmy incident. Callum was appalled by Jimmy's behavior and grumbled under his breath before placing a hand on Thomas' thigh.

"I saw the way you looked at Lieutenant Courtenay, Thomas." Callum leaned forward, lips very close to Thomas' neck. Had the under-butler not been pleasantly soused, he may have been concerned about other's reactions to their closeness, but right now it had been too long and he was actually interested in this lovely creature before him.

"Is that right?" Thomas asked, trailing his fingers down the other's arm.

"Yes… I had wished you looked at me that way. Back then. But I had come too late, I suppose. I wonder what would have happened had I been wounded sooner," He chuckled breathlessly into Thomas' ear.

"Who knows, Callum… But isn't it better we're here now?" Thomas placed his gloved hand on the other's cheek and moved his face to get a better look into those inviting eyes. He bit his lower lip, knowing he would have to restrain himself in public, but it was obvious that both men wanted this.

And the best part of this was that Jimmy was long gone from his mind.

"Mm. You bring up a very good point. Shall we?" Callum moved to get out of the booth, holding out his hand to Thomas to help him up. He left money on the table and basically dragged the ebony haired man outside.

Thomas wasn't complaining, especially when Callum pressed him up against the wall and kissed him. They were hidden in the shadows of an alleyway, laughing and giggling to themselves as they kissed and pawed at each other. Thomas felt young again, young and foolish, as he wrapped his arms around the other's neck, pulling him closer. Callum had a leg between his thighs and was grinding against him. They snogged and rocked together like that for a while before pulling apart, desperately needing to get their clothes off. The older man took him by the hand, and they rushed off into the night.

At the other end of the alleyway, a shadowed figure walked away.

* * *

The next day, Thomas had a spring in his step. He and Callum were going to meet for another nightly rendezvous, but he needed something to occupy his time until then. So he decided to walk out to the property the two men were inspecting and found Branson in his shirtsleeves and bracers sitting against a stone fence. Thomas' brow quirked.

"Tom?" And then he scolded himself. Damn it. He'd been doing so well, too. "My apologies, I mean, Mr. B—"

"You can call me Tom when we're in private. S'weird hearing 'Mr. Branson' all the bloody time from you lot." The Irishman replied, giving him a weary smile. Now that Thomas got a better look at him, it seemed as if the other had been doing some type of extraneous work. "Anyway, enjoying yer time off?"

Thomas tried to stop the smile. Really, he did. "Very much so, actually."

"Good." Tom swiped his handkerchief over his forehead. "The groundskeeper here's a real charmer."

"Oh?" Thomas pulled out his pack of cigarettes, putting a fag in between his lips. He felt compelled to offer the other one, but Tom refused.

"Aye. The man's off his bloody rocker. He's been here since before the place failed, and he intends to keep everything as is. He won't have Robert's offers, even though he technically doesn't own the land. We're trying to figure out what to do." Branson wanted to very much throw himself off the fence and lie in the grass, frustrated. He missed his daughter, and Thomas could see the tension in his body.

"I'm sure his Lordship will be able to sweet talk him into commission." He joked with a cunning smile, blowing out a ring of smoke. They shared a chuckle.

"I hope so, or I fear we'll be here for quite some time."

"Mr. Branson!" Callum walked down to the fence from the hill that led to the farm. Unlike Branson, he was in full three-piece tweed, looking as beautiful as ever in the afternoon glow. He spotted Thomas and gave him a cordial grin before turning to the estate agent. "It seems Lord Grantham can't make the fellow budge. I'm going to make a few phone calls and see if we can have him forcibly rem—"

"Ye can't have it! You'll go to hell if you steal this bleedin' property!" shouted a rather angry voice. The three men looked up to see a frantic man waving his hands at Robert Crawley, who—from what Thomas could tell from here—wore an expression so tired that he may fall over. He wondered just how relentless this bloke had been. The under-butler scowled, taking the groundskeeper's appearance. His hair was wild, unkempt, and he had a thick mustache. His blue eyes were nearly white and cold; Thomas could see them from here.

And oddly enough, they reminded him of his own. A shiver ran down his spine. He shook away his thoughts.

"Mr. Hayden, if you'll calm down for just a moment…" Robert urged, but the man called Hayden was not having it. He stomped down the dirt trail and shot Callum and Branson a glare. But when he noticed Thomas, his eyes widened slightly in recognition.

Thomas eyed him curiously, wondering what the devil provoked that kind of look. But Hayden turned away and made his way down to the gateskeeper's house. The exasperated Earl of Grantham caught up to the group, dabbing his forehead. "I suppose that's going to be a problem for quite some time. I was hoping this would be settled by the weekend."

"Why doesn't he move on with his life?" Branson grumbled, staring at the dirt, "His masters are gone. He should move on."

The under-butler gave him a sympathetic look while he kept his head down before turning to Lord Grantham. "I'm sorry to hear that, milord. Shall I go back to Downton by myself tomorrow?"

"Of course not, Barrow." Crawley replied, giving him a soft smile. "You're here for as long as we are." He nodded his head in understanding and then turned to Tyler. "Ah, yes. Barrow, this is Mr. Callum Tyler."

"We've actually met before," Callum chimed in, nodding his head. "Sergeant Barrow—" He caught himself, "Mr. Barrow treated me at the hospital and convalescent home."

"Oh that's right. I'd forgotten. That seems to be ages ago, doesn't it?"

"I'm afraid not for some of us." Tyler spoke solemnly. Thomas' gloved hand tightened into a fist, feeling the same. Robert didn't have to go to the Front. He would never understand. "Anyway, Lord Grantham, I was just telling Mr. Branson here that I was going to make a few calls to see what we can do with this Rhys Hayden fellow."

"Yes. Good. You do that. I'm going to head back to our rooms and give Cora and Murray a ring. I'll meet you for dinner, Tom."

"I might as well go with him. He looks as if he's about to keel over," Tom said after a couple of minutes, watching Robert drag his feet in the distance. "Take care, Mr. Tyler. We'll talk tomorrow." With that, Branson hurried off to catch up with Robert.

That left Thomas and Callum alone. They both smiled at each other.

"Feeling all right?" Callum asked as they walked down the road side by side, slowly. Unfortunately, he had work to tend to, so he couldn't spend the rest of the day with Thomas, but he intended to take his sweet time getting back to town. "I didn't hurt you?"

"You were lovely." Thomas responded, taking comfort in this solitude. He couldn't remember a time when he was happy like this, and it had only been a day. Something was bound to happen, but he wanted to live in the moment—even if this would only last for a few more days. He hoped that Rhys Hayden made such a stir that Thomas and Callum had to be in each other's company for the remainder of his life. He knew he wasn't falling in love, not so soon, but he definitely felt _something._ "I'm fine. Me head hurts more than me bum."

They laughed. Thomas brushed his fingers through his hair. He hadn't bothered with pomade today, because he was bushed that morning, and it was a bloody warm summer. Another comfortable silence fell upon them, and he could feel Callum looking at him. "What?"

"You look a lot younger with your hair like that." Callum observed. "You're quite the specimen, Thomas Barrow."

"Oh stop. You'll make me blush." Thomas bit back playfully, though a shade of red crept on his cheeks. It had been so long since he had been complimented, too. Ugh, Callum was doing everything right. If the under-butler wasn't careful, he may find himself under Cupid's spell before long. It was funny that Jimmy still hadn't crossed his mind, but he liked the concept of being wanted. The footman didn't want him, and well… Callum, as of right now, did. It was enough to steer his mind away from the unrequited love, 'friendship,' and disappointment. He also found that his sadder thoughts had also disappeared for the time being; he hadn't thought himself foul all day.

"How often do you get to go to London, Thomas?" Tyler asked suddenly, snapping Thomas from his thoughts.

"Not very often, I'm afraid. Even less so now that I'm no longer his Lordship's valet." He paused, turning to the brunette, "Why?"

"I was just wondering that if you were… well. I mean, we only have a few days here together, but I think I'd like to see you more, get to know you better. Perhaps I should move to Downton." He grinned.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Thomas said without thinking. "Oh—I didn't mean it like that, but you shouldn't move just to get to know _me_, Callum. I get a half-day every couple of weeks, and sometimes I get a day off. It could be possible…" Though, once it was said aloud, Thomas knew he wouldn't be seeing this wonderful man again. So, he would cherish these next couple of days, and then wonder what it would be like if Thomas had a different job, if they had met somewhere else…

"I suppose we'll see what the future brings, Thomas. We're still on for tonight, yes? I'd like not to get as drunk as last night." He paused, blushing himself. "I'd like to be completely in control of myself and be able to remember every second of it. Of you. Even now, I want to remember every inch of you."

Thomas wondered if he should find this endearing or creepy. Perhaps a little of both. But that puppy dog look made him look so playful and innocent that Thomas found his words strangely romantic. He was about to reply when he heard the harsh sound of an axe chopping wood. They turned to see Hayden slamming down an axe against the wood, as if the bark was the one trying to steal the estate away from him.

Hayden stopped chopping and glared over to them, as if he knew. Thomas swallowed, feeling his throat suddenly become dry. "I'll see you tonight, Callum." He said quickly and walked away briskly. The former officer watched him go before turning back to Hayden, who clutched his axe tightly.

* * *

They really needed to stop doing this. No, actually, they needed to continue. Thomas kissed Callum deeply as they stood behind a building, unsure if they were away from prying eyes. "You're so beautiful," Callum murmured in his ear, holding him closely. He was about to kiss Thomas again when they both heard someone clear their throat.

The duo stopped dead in their tracks, knowing that if they got caught, they would be thrown in jail. But that wasn't bad enough, the man who had caught them was none other than Rhys Hayden. "Shit," Thomas whispered, pushing away from Callum, straightening himself out. "Mr. Hayden, was it—"

"I didn't see nothing." The man replied coldly before turning away. Thomas couldn't believe his ears, but he sincerely hoped the other wasn't just lying to them. Callum put an arm protectively on Thomas' arm, but the ebony-haired man moved away.

"I think we should call it a night, don't you?" He said, straightening his tie. "Good night, Mr. Tyler."

The surprise and hurt written on Callum's face made Thomas almost regret this, but he couldn't risk being caught, not again. Lord Grantham could only protect him for so long. He didn't want to add to the situation, so he would step away now, as much as he didn't want to. "Come over tomorrow night? Please?" The other asked in a hushed voice, "I don't want to leave on this terrible note, and I'm afraid I must get back to London the day after tomorrow."

The ebony haired man bit his lower lip and then nodded. "I suppose I could. Good night." And with that, he briskly walked away, heart racing in his chest. They had gotten caught. All he would need is to be pointed out in a crowd; he wouldn't last long in jail. Not one bit. He wanted to leave Borrowby immediately, but he knew he couldn't, not with Robert Crawley's sainthood at stake. Though he was making plans to stay indoors for the entirety of tomorrow… Maybe he could read.

The road to his inn was secluded and open, a little away from the main part of the village. He didn't mind, but on this particular night he felt uneasy. That man's glare was imprinted in his memory. He didn't like it one bit. Something was wrong with that man, something terribly, irrevocably wrong. He tried to move as quickly as possible without running.

But that didn't save him from the blow to the head. It happened without warning. A blunt object made contact with the back of his head. His dark world became blurry, and as he fell, he caught a glimpse of Rhys Hayden standing over him.

* * *

He awoke to sweltering heat. Thomas groaned softly. His head was throbbing in pain, as if he had been extremely hung-over (which he guessed) or if he'd been hit with something. He lay in his position for another moment as if nothing was wrong. The inn had been hot the morning before as well, but this was a bit ridiculous. There was a dull ache in his arms, and when he tried to wipe the sweat off his forehead, he found he couldn't.

The panic set in. Thomas opened his eyes and jerked forward, only to smack his face against a very _hot _metal wiring. He shouted in pain and fell back down into the hay he lay on, struggling against the rope that kept his arms restrained behind him. From the looks of it, he was in a barn. It was mostly dark, save the streams of light coming in through breaks in the wood panels. What the _fuck_ had happened last night?

"Hello?" He said weakly, his throat dry, voice raspy from dehydration. Thomas swallowed, trying to keep calm. There must have been a reasonable explanation—

Oh, of bloody course not. He was tied up in a cage in the _middle of fucking nowhere_. This was no game. No one was going to jump out and yell surprise. It was all over. Thomas ground his teeth together. This was not the way he imagined dying. He was still young, still had too many things to do. Who could have done this to him? Was Callum secretly a serial killer, luring young men in under his spell and then torturing them to death? No. No, he refused to believe that. There was another character capable of doing this, the man that had caught him and Callum in the act last night.

Rhys Hayden. He closed his eyes, remembering his fall and seeing the horrifying man standing above him. Thomas swallowed, tugging at the rope, trying to loosen it. Maybe he could get out of here before the other returned. "HEY!" He shouted loudly, trying to get someone—anyone's attention. Maybe Lord Grantham and Branson were on the property. (Then again, would Hayden be so stupid to put him somewhere where someone could find him?) He screamed for help until the hopelessness set in. He could only rely on himself here, so he began to kick at the cage.

"Come on," Thomas said lowly to himself, slamming his shoe into the thin wiring. It wouldn't budge. "Please—please, _please_._" _But after a few more attempts, he grew tired, the heat, lack of food, and fatigue weighing him down. He closed his eyes again, wondering if this was the fate he deserved after everything he'd done in life. He wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy—especially not O'Brien.

He tried again after a while, having no idea how long he'd been here. The waiting was a torture on his own, unless he was meant to just die here like this, tied up and helpless. He'd managed to dent the cage a bit, but nothing to set him free. Thomas rested his head against the hay, closing his eyes, letting the defeat wash over him. Perhaps he could make a break for it at a later time, when he was let out of this bloody cage.

He wondered if anyone would miss him or even notice that he was missing. Sure, yes, his work was impressive, but if Thomas Barrow decided to fall off the face of the Earth, who would really care? They would all have one less burden to worry about. Lord Grantham wouldn't have to worry about making him feel comfortable in a tense area; Carson wouldn't have to try and figure out some bullshit jobs for him to do. Jimmy wouldn't have to constantly worry if he were going to be molested… O'Brien was long gone now, in India, but he wondered if maybe she might miss him. And then he laughed cynically and thought she would count is as a blessing.

Sybil might have noticed if she were still alive. When he came back into service before she ran away, they had had some surprisingly pleasant encounters. And then he remembered helping her with taking down the decorations for Edith's jilted wedding. They had nice conversations, ones true friends would have, and she cared about his well-being. She had been the first in a long, long time. Though she also helped him realize that maybe being a right arse to people wasn't the answer, either. He'd always been so protective of himself, afraid to let people in because he was afraid of rejection. So he would try to hurt them first, so they couldn't hurt him. The plan hadn't necessarily worked out to how he had hoped, and now it left him with this sense of solidarity—

The kind where no one would care about you if you went missing or died. They may have a party, perhaps to celebrate his final disappearance of Downton—for good this time. He smiled sardonically. Yes. Maybe Daisy would think about him every once and a while, but he doubted it. If it were anyone else—there probably would have been a search party going out for them. And Thomas could only wonder how frantic Robert would be if it were Bates who'd gone missing and not he.

Tears absentmindedly trickled down his cheeks as he stared in what he figured was the door of the barn, waiting for it to open and his fate to be sealed. He had to get out of here, because no one else would save him. His eyes widened when the door finally opened, showing his captor silhouetted in the sun. Thomas pushed himself to the back of the cage as far as he could go, ignoring the way it burned against his skin. He could see Hayden's outline as he walked into the barn with some large object in hand. He closed the door and turned to his victim.

"Ye sleep well, boy?" He asked, approaching the cage. When Thomas didn't answer, he asked again. "Did you sleep well?" And he slammed the object, a thick branch from a tree, against the metal wiring. Thomas writhed and whimpered.

"Why are you doing this?" Thomas spat. "I've done nothing to you—"

"On the contrary," Rhys said, leaning down, staring into his eyes. "You've gone against God and King with yer little antics these past few nights. I'm here to show you the consequences for your actions, you dirty little _faggot_."

Thomas fell silent, staring up at him with a fear he'd never experienced before in his life. Sure, he had dealt with hatred from many throughout his days, but it had never been on this radical level. They spat at him, condemned him to hell, but never took action themselves. This man was crazy, and Thomas was going to die here. He was going to die because of something about him he couldn't control. He thought he may have found just an ounce of happiness with Callum Tyler, but he knew it was too good to be true. Ironically, he smiled.

_Nature has twisted you into something foul._

* * *

Callum sat in his hotel room. He checked his pocket watch, frowning. Had Thomas stood him up? Had nearly being caught made the other change his mind? He decided to wait a little longer. Maybe Thomas had gotten preoccupied. Surely there was a lot to do in this town. Perhaps he was exploring.

At this time of night? Not likely. Callum chastised himself for thinking of something so stupid. Thomas had decided that this was a bad idea, but Callum didn't want to give up, not yet. He had thought of the other for quite some time after the war, and now he finally had Thomas in his grasps. He couldn't let him go without a fight, unless the other truly didn't want this.

He thought of trying to look for Thomas, but he didn't know where the other was staying. But he did know where Lord Grantham and Mr. Branson were! He rang the operator to get him their hotel.

"Hello?" Branson answered.

"Mr. Branson, it's Callum Tyler. I'm calling because I'm trying to locate your under-butler."

"Thomas?"

"Yes."

"Er…"

"Oh. Oh—_well_. We were friends during the war and wanted to catch up. But he hasn't shown. I was just wondering if he were with you, perhaps?"

"No. He's not here, but let me ask Robert if we're supposed to be seeing him. Hold on." Callum could hear some murmuring between them. He tapped his fingers against his leg anxiously. Something just didn't feel right. "Robert says," Branson's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, "That we don't have any engagements with Mr. Barrow this evenin'. I'm sure he's just lost track of the time." He whispered now, "He's a bit self-centered, that one."

"I see," Tyler responded, rubbing a hand over his mouth. So Thomas decided to ditch him after all. "Well, thank you anyway. I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early." He hung up and dragged his fingers through his hair. Well, that was that, then. He hoped that Thomas was at least happier wherever he chose to be that night…

Thomas curled into a ball on the dirt floor of the barn, body trembling with pain. The first punishment, Hayden said, was a beating, and so he proceeded to hit Thomas over and over with the branch until the other begged for mercy. But when he stopped, Thomas made a break for the door. It only resulted with him being tackled and punched and kicked until he felt took weak to get up—which put him here, on the ground, unmoving. Even moving an inch caused pain to flare up all over his body. It was a wonder that he was conscious right now.

Hayden stood over him, observing with narrowed, beady eyes. "You still alive, sinner?" He nudged him with his foot, hearing Thomas' pain-filled groan. "Good. I think I'll let you relax for the night. But first…" He pulled a thin, dirty rag from his pocket and knelt down next to Thomas. He grabbed a fist full of the other's hair and yanked his head back.

"Stop—" Thomas gasped before the rag was shoved in his mouth. Hayden took another strip and secured it around Thomas' head, then patted him on the shoulder.

"Can't have you calling for help. No one'll hear you anyway, sinner. No one wants to save someone who's damned by God. Now up you go." He grabbed Thomas under the arm and pulled him into a standing position. The under-butler could barely stand, so he was forced to lean against Hayden. "Got a little surprise for you. You won't have to go back in the cage tonight."

Well, at least that was music to his ears. Thomas head lulled to the side as he was brought to the center of the barn, where a long piece of rope hung from the ceiling. He winced when the other reached around and untied his hands. Hayden whistled when he saw how raw the pale man's wrists had become from all the struggling.

Thomas considered punching him and running, but he couldn't find the will to lift his arm. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he was too lightheaded to concentrate on anything more than staying alive. So he allowed Hayden to tie his wrists again, this time in front of him, and then lift his arms to attach them to the hanging rope. There was barely any tension in the rope, so when Rhys moved away, Thomas nearly fell to his knees. He cursed feeling so bloody weak. "Mmn," He grunted, biting down on the cloth in his mouth, tasting the dirt. If he made it out of this alive, he would need to brush his teeth for hours.

At least he was considering getting out of this alive. All hope wasn't lost yet, no matter how many times his captor told him it was useless. Though, all of a sudden, Thomas' eyes widened when he felt a tug against the rope. He was lifted into a standing position, and then another tug got him almost off the floor. His wrists felt the weight of his body immediately. He yelled weakly against his gag, throwing his head back, as the rope dug into his wrists. He thought Hayden said he'd get to relax tonight! He tried to look over at the psychopath, but he heard the barn door close. Was he going to be left there all night?

An hour later, and Thomas realized just how bad this position was. His arms were aching, and it was hard to keep steady. The tension in his shoulders was unbelievable. He breathed heavily through his nose, whimpering every so often. Tears came and went as time passed. There was no way he would be sleeping tonight. At some point, his shoulders dislocated, and he blacked out.

He awoke to a smack to the face. "Mmph," Thomas moaned, his arms feeling numb, as he came to. Rhys was there, staring into his eyes, those dead blue eyes piercing his soul. He was tired, so tired, and he didn't want to deal with this anymore. If this man was going to kill him, why drag it out? Did he get off on being some sick fuck?

A riding crop gently touched his cheek. "You ever been told that you need a horse-whippin', sinner?"

Thomas' eyes widened, and suddenly he was away from the barn in his mind, standing in front of Carson's desk in the man's office. The belligerent butler was yelling at him for the situation with Jimmy. _Don't get clever with me; you should be horsewhipped!_ Those words felt like a stab to the chest, as if the situation hadn't been bad enough. Carson had wanted to do this to him, because he deserved it. Did Thomas deserve it for being different? Was this truly his fault? His eyes were glassy when he came back to the reality from the hard tapping on his cheek.

Rhys smirked. "So you 'ave. I'm sure the bloke who told you will be happy to know you got what you deserved." And with that, he brought the crop back and smacked Thomas hard in the face, sending him swinging to the side. His cheek throbbed in pain, and tears stung his eyes.

He hung there for a moment, blinking back the tears, body shaking from the stress place upon it. Hayden circled around him and grabbed the back of his shirt, ripping it down the middle. He barely gave Thomas a moment before swinging the crop down. He hissed the first time, and the second…

But by the twentieth, Thomas was wailing against his gag. He could feel the welts on his back and skin breaking as it continued. Tears unconsciously ran down his cheeks as Hays grabbed his side and violently whacked him quicker and harder. Though he felt and reacted to the pain, his mind was elsewhere. This wasn't Rhys in his mind. He imagined Carson hitting him, smacking him for all of his sins, and then Jimmy, who hated him—who despised Thomas for kissing him. They all wanted him gone; they would probably all enjoy getting a swing at him, wouldn't they? Bates especially. It would be payback.

The crop hit a bleeding wound. Thomas finally screamed, throwing his head back. Hayden took a step back, watching Thomas hang, his legs given out on him. He bowed his head, breathing heavily, staring at the ground. He was foul; he deserved this. It was punishment for going against God.

"How did that feel, sinner? Doesn't feel too good, does it? You'll feel much worse in hell. You can repent for your sins, and I'll give you salvation." He spoke behind Thomas, staring at the damage he'd done. His back was completely red with marks from the crop, most bleeding now, the welts swelling. Thomas' breathing was fast, ragged. He crossed around to see his face, noticing that distant look. Had he already broken him? That was much easier than he thought. He reached forward, pulling down the gag, taking the cloth from his mouth. "What do you say?"

_I'm not foul, Mr. Carson._

Thomas looked up at him weakly, spitting out some blood. He smirked in spite of this situation, in spite of the pain and suffering sure to come with his answer.

"_Fuck you." _

Hayden yanked the gag back up.

* * *

Callum sat across from Robert and Branson. He swallowed, tugging at his collar. He still felt uneasy about Thomas missing in action. Another day had already passed, and no one had heard from him. "The police have spoken about forcibly taking him from the premise, but do you really want to continue? Perhaps we can try to find you another plot in Thirsk or Ripon."

"This plot is cheap, and we can do a lot to it." Branson replied, "It's economical, and it will be beneficial for us."

"If you say so, Mr. Branson."

Robert agreed.

Thomas could feel how swollen his cheek was from the wound last night. Two full days in a living hell, and the third was just beginning. Hayden stood before him with a hammer. He imagined that the man was going to use it on his kneecaps or something, like he'd read in novels. But he just stood there, staring at Thomas. He would have said something snarky had he not been gagged. "Mrr." He tried, at least.

"What's behind the glove, sinner?"

Thomas glanced up to his strained hands. He couldn't feel them anymore, and he didn't like how red they'd become. The glove looked very tight; he winced at the sight. Hayden walked past him and smacked him on the back, letting the scream be music to his ears. He let down the rope a little bit, watching Thomas struggle to keep standing.

"Is that a war wound, perhaps? Did you disgrace our king and country by servin' in it?" He walked back over, releasing Thomas' wrists. The under-butler dropped to his knees, his arms falling to his sides. He couldn't move. Instead, he fell forward, letting the soft hay envelope him. He'd rather like to pass out right now, but when he felt a foot on his back, he knew that wouldn't be happening. He moaned in pain as Hayden sat down on him and grabbed the gloved hand.

He removed a small knife from his pocket and cut the glove open to reveal the ugly scar. Thomas tried to move his arm away, but it hurt to even try. "Oh, this looks like a blighty to me. You a coward, too, sinner?"

Hayden grabbed the hammer and produced a rusty nail from his pocket. "Your lot would be cowards, wouldn't they? Too weak to fight for your country. It's a sin you're still alive." He placed the nail over the indentation of the scar. Thomas watched with wide eyes, trying to will his hand to move. Rhys lifted the hammer, and Thomas let out a strangled noise before it slammed into the nail, sending it straight through.

He felt _that_. Thomas buried his face into the hay, writhing underneath him, but not too much because the pressure on his wounded back made him feel even worse. "Worthless." He slammed the hammer down again, hearing the shriek underneath him. "You'll be nothing when I'm done with you. You'll beg for death."

Hayden got up, leaving the nail there. He knew Thomas wouldn't be going anywhere soon and walked to the opposite side of the barn. The under-butler closed his eyes, trying to numb his mind from the pain. He _was_ damned. He _was_ going to die here. Maybe if he could just… Thomas reached out with his arm, groaning in pain, but grasping onto the hay and slowly pulling himself forward…

He couldn't handle the physical exertion. The tears came again, and he found himself sobbing there, feeling completely helpless. He wasn't even restrained, but he still couldn't move. Why was this the karma he was getting? He never hurt anyone like this. His words had been unkind in the past, but was this physical and emotional beating the true answer?

_Please let me go,_ Thomas willed with his mind. But he heard a sizzle behind him. Thomas didn't have time to react before the brand burned through his trousers.

* * *

Something was terribly wrong. Callum could feel it in his bones as he stood there, watching the police officers corner Rhys Hayden. "You'll never find him." He said, causing Callum to look at Robert and Branson. Who was him?

"What the devil – " Robert began before Hayden shouted:

"The sinner will rot in hell! He'll burn for his sins. God will smite the homosexuals!"

Callum, Branson, and Robert all stared agape at him. The former Second Lieutenant felt his heart almost stop. He was pale when he turned back to Branson and Robert. He broke into a run toward the gatekeeper's property, slamming open the door, "Thomas?! Thomas!" But after running in every room and checking the attic, he couldn't find him. He scolded himself; he should have acted on his nerves. Now who knew what happened to poor, sweet Thomas.

He knew that the one thing Thomas Barrow wanted more than anything in the world was to be loved. He was beginning to learn of the hardships the man had faced, and if it was true, if Hayden had apprehended him and hurt him in some way…

He didn't want to think of the consequences. Branson and Robert rushed passed him, seeing a far off barn in the distance, something off the abandoned property. Callum raced after them, trying to catch up and get ahead of them. If they saw Thomas first, he knew he wouldn't have been able to forgive himself. It was hard to run; he could feel an ache in his thigh, but he pushed himself. He needed to find Thomas.

He cut just in front of Branson and made his way to the barn door. He found strength from within to push open the door. What he saw made him gasp, and he covered a hand over his mouth. "Dear God—"

Branson caught up and stood beside him, tense. He didn't say a word, but Callum could see the other's facial expression through his peripherals. He looked murderous. When Robert finally caught up, he became ill and excused himself.

Tom found himself hesitantly walking over to the figure. Thomas had both arms extended over his head, tied to separate beams. His bloody back was exposed, the word 'SINNER' cut into his skin. It looked fresh. The under-butler's head was bowed, and from what Tom could see, he was unconscious. The once-chauffeur reached forward, untying the gag and pulling it away from Thomas' pale lips. The man was worse for wear. His lip was split, both eyes were black, and his cheek was very swelled. Dry blood crusted under his nose and lip.

Tom Branson never before wanted to kill someone as much as he wanted to murder the man who did this. Thomas had never been a kind person, no, but he didn't deserve this. He cupped the other's cheek, gently tapping it. "Thomas?" He asked softly.

The man stirred, and when he opened his eyes, Tom found it hard not to gasp. That broken look in Thomas' eyes made him feel sick and twisted the hatred inside of him even more. But he swallowed it back; he needed to be strong for this man. "Tom?" He snapped out of his thoughts when Thomas spoke his name weakly, as if not actually believing the man was there. "Tom?"

"Yes." Tom said, feeling the tears in his eyes. "Yes, it's me, Thomas. You're safe now."


	2. within the palm of my hand

**A/N**: Not too happy with the way this chapter turned out, but I've decided to post it anyway. There will be a lot more drama and "fun" stuff in part 3, promise!

* * *

The staff stood at attention when Mr. Carson came in. A grave look was on the aging man's face. He glanced over to Mrs. Hughes before inhaling a deep breath. He let it out slowly before saying, "There's been an incident."

"Is it His Lordship?" Bates asked, taking hold of Anna's hand. A soft murmuring echoed in the room as the younger staff began to gossip on what might have happened.

Carson felt a lump in his throat when he spoke again. "No. I'm afraid it has to do with Mr. Barrow."

The room grew silent.

Mr. Barrow? But what could have happened to Thomas? Had the man gotten himself into unwanted trouble? Jimmy lowered his gaze, wondering if the man had been chivalrous again and gotten himself hurt. He could still remember the other's beaten face after that day when he saved Jimmy from those thieves. "What's happened?" He asked, his voice low, causing the others to look at him.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Barrow has been…" Carson trailed off, feeling uneasy about saying this, especially in the presence of women. But most of the staff knew about Thomas' ways, so surely they could understand… "Attacked." That was all he found he could muster after all. Robert had told him the state they found Thomas in and said he wasn't sure when Thomas would be returning to work.

And then Robert paused and said, _"Carson, I don't know _if _Barrow will be returning to work after this. He's absolutely traumatized and rightfully so. I don't know what we can do for him in his type of situation. He may never be the same."_

It all made sense now, really, why Thomas had acted so angrily and callously in his younger years. Carson realized that it had been a defense mechanism, because the young man had been terrified of what could happen to him if he was found out. It was unfortunate that he had to actually experience other's hate. Guilt had bubbled in his chest when he remembered that broken, defeated look on the under-butler's face when he said he should be horsewhipped. He wished he never had. Even if it was against Carson's believes, even if it was Thomas—he knew the man had changed, and that he had finally been sincere for perhaps the first time in his life. The incident with Jimmy had been O'Brien's doing to try and get Thomas fired without a reference. She had nearly succeeded. Carson could only imagine what the world could be like for someone like Thomas. Perhaps he would have had to play the same role Ethel had. Even though it was vile and wretched… Carson found himself becoming more understanding in his older years. Mrs. Hughes was to thank for that.

"Attacked?" Daisy asked, eyes wide. "Is he all right?"

"He is alive." Carson responded. That didn't settle well with anyone in the room. Of course, no one particularly liked Thomas, but the man had been a presence there for over ten years.

"Poor Thomas," Anna said softly during their down time later that day. Jimmy was staring at his untouched cup of tea. "I do hope he'll be all right."

"Do you think it has something to do…" Bates trailed off. Anna was surprised he'd say something like that, but then she considered it for a moment.

"If it is, then I don't know what he will be like when he returns."

"Why is it that people hate his kind so much?" Jimmy suddenly asked, looking up at them. They gave him a strange look, considering he had tried to have Thomas fired last year. "I mean, he can't control it, can he? That would be telling someone to stop being a man or a woman…" He remembered that broken look Thomas gave him that night, when Jimmy threatened to hurt him. He imagined he broke Thomas' heart, but he couldn't imagine why the other thought he cared for him in that way. However, he didn't want to go as far as O'Brien had.

"Because it's not natural." Bates began and then frowned, "Because others don't believe it's natural. But it shouldn't matter."

"You're damn right it shouldn't. Did Mr. Carson say when he would be coming home?"

"He said that they should be back tonight, but Mr. Barrow will be put in the hospital in the village until he heals." Bates paused, "However long that may be."

* * *

"Thomas, darling, please… speak to me." Callum sat next to the bed, watching as the wounded man stared at the wall blankly. He wasn't even sure if Thomas was breathing. "I should have looked for you sooner. Had I known—"

"I was just some lay to you." Thomas murmured his response, voice low and raspy. "It's fine. You had no obligation." His words seemed so final, so full of despair. Callum could imagine that Thomas thought no one would care if he'd gone. From what the other told while he was drunk, Thomas didn't have much self worth. Perhaps he had years ago, but it was evident—especially now—that Thomas had reconciled with the fact that no one would have saved him, and that being here now was like a dream of sorts.

"Does it hurt? Do you need more morphine?"

"M'fine."

"Thomas, you most certainly are not. You don't have to hide it. You won't be in trouble for admitting pain or…" He trailed off, watching the tears forming in the younger man's eyes. "… what did he do to you?"

"We are _disgusting_." Thomas said, voice filled with emotion. "We are sinners who will rot in hell. I only got what I deserved."

The statement visibly shook Callum.

Branson stood in the doorway, catching that last sentence. He had figured Tyler had been seeing Thomas by the way he reacted on the phone and when they'd found out the worst. His hand became a fist, but he refrained from punching the wall. "No one deserves what happened to you, Thomas. Not even you." He hadn't meant for his tack on to sound so callous, as if Thomas were a terrible human being who would torture another man. He was just so angry, but he needed to be gentle, because Thomas was on a path of self-destruct.

"Mr. Tyler, please go. I don't wish to see you again." Thomas spoke weakly before hiding his face into his pillow. Branson sympathized with Tyler, seeing the forlorn look on the man's face. But he could do nothing for the broken man beside him. None of them could right now. Perhaps in time, Thomas will come to realize that he needed someone like Tyler to openly care for him, since by the sound of it, the under-butler didn't think anyone would. When he broke down after they'd found him and clutched Branson like he was a brother or a father (or perhaps even a lover, Branson mused), it dawned on him that he never could have done that before. He probably still felt shame about letting his emotions out so freely.

It was funny how he could read Thomas so well now, because back then, when the other had been an insufferable sod, perhaps Branson wouldn't have been able to or cared as he did now. He would make sure Rhys Hayden would never come out of jail alive, even if his crime was abusing a _homosexual _man. Even if the courts would be in Hayden's favor, Lord Grantham would keep it hush that his under-butler was on the opposite sexual spectrum.

Callum admitted defeat and got up. "If you need anything, please do not hesitate to ring me."

"Just go."

Callum turned to see Branson, surprised. He opened his mouth to speak, but Branson shook his head—an unspoken 'it's OK.' He nodded and walked past the Irishman. "Do see he's well looked after. I'm afraid he may do something drastic." He said under his breath before leaving the room. Branson frowned but nodded.

And then there was silence.

"It hurts."

Branson had barely heard him, but he was surprised that Thomas had said just that. He didn't say anything at first, watching him carefully. Did Thomas think he was alone, or—

"I thought I could last. Maybe get away. Didn't think he'd had it in him, really. But he did and then some."

"I'm sorry—"

"No. No, you're not. But that's fine."

Thomas looked up at him with bloodshot eyes and tears trickling down his cheeks. He never thought he'd live to see this day, to see Thomas Barrow feel something other than hate. But that wasn't a fair judgment, was it? Thomas was human after all. He laughed and cried like everyone else, even if it was in private. He was a man with worries and cares, secrets and habits. He'd bleed just like anyone else. Branson swallowed, staring down at his shoes.

"But I am. Robert and I didn't even consider anything out of the ordinary. We were hoping you had found someone in the village—" He trailed off. "We thought you were just enjoying your days off, and that we shouldn't bother you. But Mr. Tyler was worried. We should have suspected something was wrong when he was nervous, but we didn't know about you two."

"Please save it, Mr. Branson." Thomas said, lip quivering. "I don't need to be lied to. Not like this. I know how everyone feels about me. I'd feel a sense of relief that I finally got what was owed to me—"

He really loathed himself, didn't he? He really thought himself so low. Had the staff really so vehemently disliked him? It couldn't have been that bad, could it? Or was this all a fabrication in Thomas' mind, created by the recent turn of events and perhaps something created after the incident with the footman.

"I know you that's what you think." Branson said slowly, trying to think carefully about his words. "But you should give us and yourself much more credit than that, Mr. Barrow. We would have never wished this upon you." He knew he was going out on a limb here to say something like this, afraid that when Thomas got back to Downton he might be proved wrong. But he had fate in the staff, and the family, too.

But when Thomas gave that breathy, callous laugh, Branson frowned. That was going to be a problem. He wondered why _he_ cared so much, but he remembered the stories Sybil would tell of she and Thomas' interactions during the war. She had actually gotten to know the nasty bugger, and she revealed to Tom (as much as he refused to listen at the time) that she realized how misunderstood Thomas was—but that was his own fault. But she would tell him it was because she knew he was scared. Sybil was very compassionate toward him, and it almost made Branson jealous. He'd heard about the incident with Edward Courtenay, and he could remember how cold and angry Thomas had been when dealing with the convalescent home. It was strange (and yet, a relief) to know that he wasn't just a bastard. And maybe that was why he cared, because Sybil would have been trying her best to comfort him, even when he didn't want to be.

"Tell me." Thomas said, his body tense, examining the bloody bandages on his hand. "Would you have bothered with a grave stone? I mean, the logical thing would be to contact my family—but they would probably tell you to burn the body."

"Mr. Barrow…"

"But I don't imagine Lord Grantham would stand for that. He'd bury me." Though he seemed to be at war with himself about it. "He'd probably give me a little wooden pole or something… 'The best cricket player, but the worst servant a man could ask for. Barrow.' Or would he have just had me disposed of? Then again, I don't think there would have been a body left."

"—Thomas."

"He'd probably have cut me up into pieces. Fed some to his dog, bury them around the place. Yes. He'd start slowly. Probably with this hand." He gestured to the bloody, useless hand. "Though he did talk about castration—"

Tom could see the manic look in Thomas' eyes. He walked over to the bed, dropping into the chair that Tyler had occupied. He couldn't think of anything to say, but Thomas was still talking, lost in his own world. "Maybe I would see Edward in hell. Men who take their own life go there, too, yeah? It'd be nice to see him again, even if we were burning in the eternal flames. May have made it a bit nicer. I doubt I'd ever go to the other place—homosexual or not. So I wouldn't see Sybil again…"

"_Thomas_." Branson said, hesitant to put a comforting hand on him. "You're alive. You don't have to think about that. You'll be okay. And I'm sure Robert would have taken better care of you…" He paused. His family wouldn't take him? "But your family would surely—"

"I'm a disgrace to them. No, they wouldn't have it. I haven't spoken to them for nearly fifteen years now. Probably more. Lost count." So Thomas had been alone for most of his life. Tom wondered if he would have been cold and untrusting to if his family wouldn't speak to him. "Tried writing my sister during the whole Jimmy thing, since I had no where to go if I'd been thrown out. She wrote me a short letter: 'Burn in hell, and stay far away from my children.' That was that. The only family I talk to is a cousin in Bombay. He doesn't care what I am." He paused, saying thoughtfully, "_He_ may have taken my body…"

Branson felt that he should take advantage of how talkative Thomas was being. This was crucial to figuring out how to help him heal. "Have you always been alone?"

"I had Philip for a while." Thomas said solemnly, thinking back to the Duke of Crowborough. "I thought we were in love. He was the first man who I had a true relationship with. But I messed that up, too. I've caused a lot of my own pain," He laughed at himself. "But everyone else has abandoned me, too. There was even a bloody dog I befriended as a child who began to prefer my siblings to me. There were men who thought me pretty in my younger years, before I'd gone into service. But no permanent person… I thought O'Brien may have been that person, but things change. People change… and Thomas Barrow stands alone again." It wasn't as if he was really talking to Branson, so he kept prying. Maybe it would help him understand. It all sounded so tragic.

"Why didn't you try to reach out to someone?"

Thomas turned to him, a very dark expression on his face. "Why bother, when I would be setting myself up for heart break again? No one would dare be my friend for too long, lest they be masochistic." He smiled, staring down to his lap. The morphine at least made his back hurt considerably less.

"So you were an arse because you didn't want anyone to hurt you… So you hurt them first."

"Sounds pretty stupid, doesn't it?"

"… perfectly reasonable in your position. Why are you telling me?" Branson was curious to know.

Thomas picked as his bandages. "This isn't real, so why not? I'll wake up back in the barn, soon, I imagine. But it's nice to feel safe, if only in my dreams."

Oh _jesus._ Tom swallowed and placed a hand on his thigh, rubbing it, trying to comfort him. "… this is real, Thomas."

"Is it? Ah." The bruised man blinked. It still hadn't registered. He didn't realize what he was saying, how open he was being, because he thought it was a dream. How long would Thomas think it was a dream? Perhaps when they got back to Downton, he'd realize. And then he would probably beg Branson not to say anything. "… funny. You would never be kind to me in reality, Mr. Branson."

Now that was a jab he wasn't expecting. Tom opened his mouth but closed it. Had he forgotten what Tom said when they had just arrived? Probably not. The man was stuck inside of his thoughts. He had probably warped everyone now. "Sorry you didn't get to join in with everyone and the horsewhip. Perhaps next time." That was disconcerting. Branson stared at him incredulously.

But luckily, Robert entered. "The chauffeur has arrived."

Tom turned back to Robert, lips pressed into a thin line. His heart was aching. How could someone think he was so hated? That no one cared about him? But if he hadn't been shown much kindness—genuine kindness—it was easy to think that. Tom couldn't imagine not having his family; he lived for them. He wanted to go see his baby girl and shower her with love and affection for the rest of her life, making sure she never felt the abandonment that Thomas spoke of. "Come on, Thomas… let's get you to the car."

* * *

Thomas had been quiet and unresponsive on the car back to Downton. Anything he had shared before seemed to be forgotten. Tom and Robert wondered if he was back in the barn. Dr. Clarkson would know what to do for this type of trauma, wouldn't he? But the doctor who looked after Thomas said that he would probably be different for the rest of his life. One would never truly heal from something as tragic as this.

But Thomas was strong, wasn't he? He'd been able to come out of the war all right. Robert watched him slump in the seat, eyes drooping down. Branson had relayed a version of the story Thomas told him, about the graves and not having anyone who didn't hate him. Robert recalled something Thomas had said when he was a valet. _Are you not popular downstairs?_ He was afraid to find that it was true, but was it really only Thomas fault?

They made it to the hospital, and a nurse helped Tom bring Thomas in. "He's been heavily sedated," Robert said to Dr. Clarkson. "He's also been having all sorts of delusions—"

"I'm afraid that's common. I'll take note of all his wounds and then we'll talk."

Seeing Thomas' naked body made one of the nurses get sick and rush out of the room. Dr. Clarkson documented the bruising, the cuts, the welts and swelling. He then got a good look at the wounded hand; it looked infected, but was in the middle of treatment. He'd need to get Thomas on antibiotics. The worst was the damage to his back and face, and the cattle brand on his arse. "I'm afraid that the scar of … _that _caliber won't fade completely."

"So he'll be marked for the rest of his life." Robert realized, frowning.

"He's also been branded with a cattle—"

"_What?_" As if the damage wasn't bad enough! Dr. Clarkson pointed it out, and they stared at the burn. So not only would Thomas be marked as a sinner for the rest of his life, but he'd have two reminders of what was done to him.

"Both his shoulders are dislocated, but have been replaced. He seems to not have much problem with his arms, luckily. Though his hand is going to give him some problems. I know he'd had issues with moving his fingers before. The nail may have pierced the nerve…" Clarkson trailed off. He never thought he'd feel compassion for Thomas Barrow. But as Thomas lay unmoving on the hospital bed, battered and beaten in a much worse capacity than the attack from the fair, his chest ached with some sort of emotion.

"Take care of him, Doctor. Don't worry about the bills. I've got them. So, the physical damage can be attended to, but what about…" Robert trailed off.

"I'm afraid I cannot say. In time, we'll see. We will monitor him."

"Thank you, Doctor Clarkson." Robert's voice trailed off, and he swallowed.

The car pulled up to Downton. Robert and Tom walked straight to the servants' hall to relay the news to Carson and Mrs. Hughes. At first, Carson didn't want to hear the details, but as they went on, both the butler and housekeeper felt ill. Robert then spoke about what Thomas had said to Tom in his mania. "If anyone wants to visit him, please let them. The poor chap really thinks he's alone in all of this."

"I would like to mention that his loneliness is his own fault," Carson chimed up, but Hughes gave him the dirtiest glare.

"Do you not have an ounce of compassion for the boy?" She growled; she couldn't believe Carson right now. "This is exactly what I was worried would happen. I'll go off to see him, and we'll give some time to allow visits, should any of the staff want to go… Thank you, Your Lordship, Mr. Branson." She nodded her head. Robert frowned at Carson, while Tom gave him a dirty look, before they left.

"I do feel sympathy for him, Mrs. Hughes, but he brought this upon himself."

"Thomas Barrow cannot be blamed for being what he is. It is our society who cannot accept him, and now something tragic has happened. We will not abandon him, not when he needs us the most. Not when he needs a _family_, Mr. Carson."

"I'm hardly his family—"

"Have you gone mad? Are you really that unkind, Mr. Carson? I'm disappointed in you." And with that, Mrs. Hughes exited the room, dismissing anything he may have said in retaliation. She ran into Jimmy who stood expectantly in the hall.

"Has Mr. Barrow returned, then?"

Mrs. Hughes eyed him suspiciously, not knowing his motivations. But she sighed, trying to calm herself. "Yes. He's currently in the village hospital. When he's ready to have visitors, we will let anyone who wishes to go see him go."

"How badly hurt is Mr. Barrow?" Daisy's voice chimed up from the kitchen. She stood in the doorway bashfully.

"I'm afraid it's worse than any of us could have ever imagined, Daisy." Mrs. Hughes spoke gravely, looking past her.

"… I want to go see him." She said lowly, playing with the hem of her apron.

"In due time, my dear girl. In due time."

Mrs. Hughes left Jimmy and Daisy to silence. Jimmy felt burning emotion swell in his chest. He needed to see Thomas, to make sure he was all right… He didn't know why he suddenly cared so much, but he worried. No one knew why he was attacked, but they could have all guessed—those who knew how Mr. Barrow was. It was funny, really, how attached he became to the man now that they were friends.

"I'm really worried about Thomas." Daisy swallowed, feeling tears in her eyes. "I know he wasn't kind to me before, but he's changed. He's a good man, deep down."

"I know, Daisy." Jimmy turned to her, watching the tears roll down her cheeks.

"M'sorry. I should get back to work." And with that she turned back into the kitchen, leaving Jimmy alone.

* * *

Dr. Clarkson ran toward the bed of a thrashing, screaming man. The nurses were staring at Thomas, terrified as he yelled bloody murder. He was still asleep and having quite the nightmare. The doctor pushed past them and grabbed Thomas by the shoulders, shaking him. "Mr. Barrow—_Mr. Barrow!_ Wake up! You are only having a dream—"

"Please _stop_. STOP!" Thomas' voice took a high pitch, unlike him. "It hurts—it hurts!" But suddenly his eyes opened, and he stared up at Clarkson. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and his mouth was agape as he tried to find them words.

"I'm sorry, Major—I shouldn't be slacking on the job. I just… I was _so_ tired."

The older doctor felt a lump in his throat. Thomas thought he was back in the war. "Son, you're not on duty. You've been attacked."

The under-butler looked up at him in recognition, remembering the events of the last week. His winced and then moved to his side, curling up in a ball. "_I'm sorry_," He whispered, hugging himself to the best of his abilities.

"You had a bad dream—"

"Yes." Thomas spat. "Go away."

"Are you in any pain?"

"No."

"Mr. Barrow…"

"_No._" He deserved this pain. He was foul and dirty and _disgusting_ and worthless and a coward. He deserved to die, but this suffering was God's will. "Leave me alone."

"I need you take some medicine so that your hand will heal. A nurse will give it to you daily. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask, Mr. Barrow. If you need to talk…"

"I'm _fine._"

Why was Clarkson being so bloody nice?

The doctor nodded patiently before leaving Thomas alone.

* * *

Jimmy wore his livery to the hospital, not having time to change when Mrs. Hughes announced that Thomas was well enough to have visitors. It had been a couple of weeks now. He'd heard that the man had been suffering in silence, and he wondered if that was how Thomas always operated. He fixed his hair and picked a couple of flowers from the garden—he wasn't sure why, but he figured they may make Mr. Barrow feel better.

When he was led to the bed, though, he was nearly floored. Thomas' bare back was staring at him. Jimmy stopped in his tracks, reading the scarring SINNER across his shoulder blades. He swallowed, feeling nervousness in the pit of his stomach. The worst part of this, though, was that Thomas was curled into an unmoving ball. His gaze was blank, staring at the curtains hiding him from the other patients. Jimmy cleared his throat.

Thomas didn't move.

"Mr. Barrow?" He asked softly, taking the seat next to Thomas' cot.

Finally, those blue eyes flickered toward him. Jimmy was surprised to see the vacancy of any emotions. Sure, Thomas always knew how to control them, but this was different… it was as if he was a doll or dead. "I—er—brought you some flowers. Thought they may brighten up your space." He rested them against the small table set next to Thomas' bed. Jimmy then realized he didn't have a vase to put them in and made a mental note to ask Dr. Clarkson for one.

"Why have you come?"

The question was sudden. Jimmy tilted his head in confusion. "I wanted to see how you were. They haven't told us anything, and well… we were assuming the worst. But—"

"Made a bet with Alfred, have you? Probably trying to see if I'm a sobbing mess."

"No, Mr. Barrow, it's not like—"

"I bet you're gleeful that you get to see me put in my place—"

"I don't—"

"Well, _are you happy now?"_

Jimmy thought back to when he wanted Thomas fired, remembering how he desperately wanted the problem to go away, and even though he had been disgusted, he still hadn't wished this upon the under-butler. No one knew what had happened except for Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson, and Mrs. Patmore. Though he suspected Bates and Anna might know something as well. Jimmy was the first to visit him, and he'd be damned if he didn't find out the truth. But that had been an unexpected question.

"Why would I be happy? You're hurt—"

"You may have not gotten the chance to punish me for my atrocious actions, but someone else got the change to. You should be happy."

Jimmy sat there in silence, unable to hide his shock. Did Mr. Barrow think he hated him that much? But they had become friends—even had the occasional laugh or two while playing cards after dinner. It was as if Thomas had regressed in his progress to be Jimmy's friend, as if he was _still_ beating himself up over the whole misunderstanding. That's what Jimmy called it, anyway. It was no longer _the incident_ because Thomas had come clean about it. He'd been corrected, and life carried on. But now it was like the whole thing was a problem again…

"No. No, I'm not bloody happy that my _friend _is hurt and accusing me of being happy about his pain."

Something flickered in Thomas' eyes. Jimmy couldn't place the emotion, but it was there all the same. The under-butler sat up, lips pressed into a thin line. He didn't speak for a while, as if trying to get his thoughts together, before he finally said, "I'm sorry… that was cruel of me."

"No." Jimmy said for what he felt like the hundredth time. "No, please—_stop_ that. No one is against you here, Mr. Barrow. Daisy—she's wanted to come since she's heard of this. And even Mr. Bates and Anna wish you well. We want you to come back. We want to visit you."

Thomas turned to him, unable to hide the surprise. "But… after all I've done… no one thinks I—" His voice cracked, and he looked away, embarrassed.

"What happened? You used to be so sure about… everything. We were told it was just an attack, but it's something more, isn't it? I saw your back…" Jimmy trailed off, desperately trying to fight the urge to grab Thomas' hand.

Thomas once again fell silent, but this time he looked as if he was in some sort of trance.

"_You would think," Hayden said, twirling the bloody knife in his fingers. Thomas was shaking, making all kind of noises as the cuts burned. The man had carved something into his back. He had _written_ something with a knife. He could barely keep consciousness, but fainting wouldn't help him. "That after four days, they would send someone out looking for you." He snorted, turning to face his captive. "You apparently matter to many, sinner." The sarcasm was dripping in his tone, and it hit Thomas hard—almost as hard as the physical wounds. Maybe even harder. A day or two made sense, but Hayden was right. Someone should have realized by now…_

_But what if they had and didn't bother? Did they think Thomas ran off? Hayden placed the knife against his neck, the blade pressing into his skin. "Do you want it to end? Though I'm certain death won't be any less painful for you, boy." _

_He could barely see, the tears burning his eyes and blurring his vision. Thomas hyperventilated, tugging on his restraints, trying to move away from the knife. He had become a cowering fool who would beg for his life, even after all of this. At the sight of Thomas' refusal to die, Hayden patted his cheek. "Suit yourself." _

_He left Thomas alone after that, leaving the other man to his own thoughts, creating hundreds of reasons why no one came for him. Most of them were bad._

"Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy asked, snapping him out of his memory. He felt extremely uneasy because there were tears streaking down the older man's cheeks. Never did he think Thomas could, even after everything that happened between them. He'd seen tears in the under-butler's eyes, but Thomas had so much control. "Are you all right?"

"There are many in this world who hate my kind, James." Thomas said lowly, his voice laced with pain and anguish. "Most would call the police when experiencing the illegal acts, but one man decided to take matters into his own hands."

Poor word choice. Jimmy's eyes widened. Had Thomas molested another man? No—_no. _Thomas had not molested him. A kiss was hardly something to scream about (he realized now), but he couldn't imagine doing it again. "So… what you're saying is…"

"I found someone in the village. He and I were a little too excited around each other, and we were caught by some loon."

Ah. Jimmy rubbed a hand over his mouth. "And he attacked you?"

"He jumped me and tortured me in a barn for a bleedin' five days."

Thomas would just come out with that sort of information? Jimmy tried not to look absolutely flabbergast at the news, but he felt honored that Thomas trusted him enough to tell him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." He responded distantly. Jimmy took note of the tone, knowing that Mr. Barrow would deny if he were in pain or not. "But my _fucking_ hand won't…" He looked at the wounded, bandaged hand. He could move his pointer and thumb, but his other three fingers were refusing to move. "I can't work unless—"

"Work?"

"I need to get back to my job. I've been going bloody bonkers in here." Thomas looked at him as if he had ten heads. "Unless… that is … if Carson doesn't wish for me to return?"

"No—no, it's not that. But—"

"Many of the wounds have healed, Jimmy. You lot were saved from seeing the worst of it. Though my back is really itchy."

"You're not going to take any time off? To relax?"

"Taking time off was what got me into trouble." Thomas said with so much sincerity that Jimmy swallowed and nodded. If that's what Thomas thought. "Now you should get back, before someone scolds you for being out here too long to see me." He paused, glancing to the flowers. "… thank you."

* * *

Thomas received visits from almost the entire staff. Mrs. Patmore and Ivy came to give him some treats; Daisy had come and _cried_ and even hugged him; Alfred tagged along with Jimmy next time he came along, and the three played cards; Mrs. Hughes had been a frequent visitor, making sure he was all right; even Mr. Carson had come to talk about work and how Thomas felt about coming back; however, it was Bates and Anna who surprised him.

John limped into the room with Anna trailing just behind. Thomas was lying on his stomach, so he hadn't even seen them come in. He was wearing a loose shirt this time, though, so not everyone could see the scar forming on his back. "What if he's asleep?" Anna asked in a hushed whisper.

"Please spare me your pity." Thomas said into the pillow, groaning at the mere thought of Anna _and _Bates coming to see him at his weakest. At least it wasn't a couple of weeks ago, when the wounds were still fresh and Thomas hadn't any control over his emotions. "Have you come to see 'how I am?'"

"As a matter of fact, yes." John said, leaning against his cane.

"I made you some brownies, Thomas." Anna said cordially, placing a small basket on the table. The flowers that Jimmy got him were wilted in a vase.

"Has everyone forgotten that I am _still_ Mr. Barrow?" He grumbled, not bothering to turn his head to look at her. "I don't need your gifts. I don't _need _anything!"

"I suppose we should have expected you to be so ungrateful—" Bates said before he even realized it. Anna turned to him, eyes wild. She didn't lose her temper often, but hell hath no fury like Anna Bates did when she was angry. Before she could speak, though, Thomas had turned.

He looked much better. The swelling was completely gone, and the bruises had gone away. There was still a red mark on his cheek, but he was healing nicely. But they could only imagine what he had looked like weeks ago. Carson had told Bates the entirety of the story, save for what Thomas to Mr. Branson in private. There was nothing but wrath in the under-butler's eyes, however, as he glared at Bates and Anna. "You're doing your charity for the month, aren't you? Feigning care. Honestly, Bates, must you come to gloat about your _perfect_ life?"

"My life was hardly perfect, Thomas." Bates' eyes narrowed. Anna did not like the tension in the room, not one bit. She put her hand on John's shoulder, squeezing it.

"This is always about _you_, isn't it." Thomas said with not as much malice as he had intended. He cowered away from them a bit, hugging the blanket closer. "Don't do me any more favors, Bates." He said lowly, eyes downcast.

Anna's look told John to leave, so he did. She stayed, however, and took a seat at the edge of his bed. "Thomas—he doesn't mean it. We can only imagine how much you must be hurting."

"Right." The under-butler turned away from her, throwing the blanket over his head.

"… please let someone help you, Thomas. I fear for you should you push us all away."

Perhaps she had not meant to say that aloud, but Thomas poked his head out from the blanket, surprised by her words all the same. The staff was doing that a lot lately. She wordlessly stood up and passed him a weak, comforting smile before leaving the room.

* * *

Branson had come to help Thomas back to Downton. He'd volunteered when he heard the man was well enough to go back into his own room and rest. But when he arrived at the hospital, Dr. Clarkson took him aside. "I suggest you tell the downstairs staff to keep an eye on him, Mr. Branson. He has been reverting back to his old self as the days continue on, but I fear there is something brewing deep within. And if it explodes… I fear I may not know how to help him. I've asked him to come back once a week to talk. We shall see how that goes."

"He's stubborn," Branson commented, glancing over his shoulder toward the curtained cot. "But I think he'll be all right…"

"One can only hope he will, Mr. Branson."

Branson pulled open the curtain to see Thomas sitting there, staring idly at his still-bandaged hand. He suddenly felt a surge of guilt, letting a dark memory from weeks ago overcome him…

_Thomas sat on the bed, shaking, full of sobs of tears. Callum had an arm around his shoulders, soothing him with sweet nothings in his ear. His hand was outstretched in Branson's direction, the rusted nails (now five in total) peaking out. They'd given him a bottle of liquor, and he took a swig, remembering treatment on the Front for this sort of thing. His eyes squeezed shut as he let out an uncontrollable yelp when the nail was pulled out._

_Branson thought he might be sick, seeing the puss from the wound. Thomas' hand was shaking so hard by the time the third nail had been pulled out, and he was begging Branson to stop the pain—that he would be good, just please bloody _stop._ Branson tried to tell him that this would help, but the wounded and terrified under-butler wouldn't have it. He wasn't there with them right now, lost in a world that was foreign to anyone but him. He continued to extract the last two nails before joining them in a hug, not caring if he was to get bloodied up._

_Thomas soon fell silent, his tears spent up, as he watched Branson take his ruined shirt and tie it around the wound. Callum took his hand after that and kissed it right in front of the Irishman, not caring. Lord Grantham was long gone, off to find a doctor. _

"_You'll be all right, Thomas." Branson urged. "You'll be fine." If only he could make Thomas believe him…_

"Are you ready to go?" Branson asked him finally, finding his voice. Thomas didn't bother to look at him as he stood. He wondered if the under-butler had remembered the same thing. "You don't have to worry about getting back to work right away."

"I want to," Thomas replied coldly.

Branson tugged at his collar, suddenly feeling as if his shirt and tie were trying to suffocate him. He offered an arm to Thomas, who rejected it and walked past him. It was good to see that he wasn't limping. Then again, why would he? Branson didn't remember any wounds to the man's lower body, save that terrible brand. He followed, letting an awkward silent tension surround them.

They were in the car in no time, and Thomas refused to look at him. Though, he did say: "I'm not going to break. You don't have to keep watching me as if I was a delicate porcelain doll." His words had a lot of bite to them, and Tom wasn't sure if he was relieved or nervous to see this side of Thomas. Lashing out meant that he was hurting, but he wouldn't allow himself to be helped.

"I only worry." Tom admitted lowly, embarrassed at the sentiment.

"I still cannot understand why." Thomas growled as a response and looked away to watch the scenery as they journeyed back to Downton.

"Because—"

"Will you just stop it?" Thomas barked, turning to him, eyes wild. "I really don't need everyone's pity. Yes—this happened to me. But I'm not going to let it affect me, because I am better than that. I want to return to work, I want my bloody hand to work, and _I want to forget about it._ If you all stop watching me like I was going to kill myself or—I don't know—going to have a breakdown, then maybe I could forget! Stop asking me if I'm all right. Of course I am."

If this was any other member of the family, Thomas would have not have been so belligerent, but it was Tom, and he still felt connected to Tom in spite of the other's higher social status. Tom still came from similar routes and had been a chauffer before he married Sybil Crawley. Thomas could speak to him however he wished when the two were alone. "Now if you could relay that to _everyone_, I would very much appreciate it, so I can _get on with my life._" He breathed heavily, face red with anger.

"… very well," Branson responded and stayed silent for the rest of the ride. Thomas was grateful, because he knew he was going to explode if the conversation continued. His good hand balled into a fist, and he wanted nothing more than to punch out the window, but that would render both of his hands useless. Instead, he settled for seething in his spot, biting the inside of his lip. Branson passed him a few quick glances, but Thomas didn't pay them any mind. He _was_ fine, if he could keep reassuring himself as such.

When the car finally stopped at the back entrance, Branson offered his arm to Thomas to help him out. He waved the man away and sighed when he glanced up to the large manor. Maybe things could finally return to normal now. No more worried glances, no more fake comforting. Just everything as it used to be. Thomas would be grateful for that. He brushed off Branson completely and made his way inside, taking a look around. It had been weeks since he'd been here. Everything felt foreign to him, but he pushed that feeling aside. He was just happy to be back.

"Thomas?" Mrs. Patmore said as she entered the hallway, holding a tray for the servant's lunch. "You're back."

"Yes. Very good deduction, Watson." Thomas replied smarmily, causing her to visibly relax. He winked at her, feeling the need to reassure her of his good health, save his hand.

"Who's Watson?" She asked. "A friend of yours?"

Thomas couldn't stop himself from smiling at the other woman's ignorance. Then again, he didn't expect her to have time to read Sherlock Holmes. "You could say that." He replied softly, fondly. It was nice to know that she wouldn't treat him any differently. He could heal faster this way, push those dark thoughts far back into the recesses of his mind…

Though his mood changed very quickly upon entering the servant's hall to see everyone turn to him. Their expressions ranged from shock to relief. He spared a glance at Jimmy, whose lips were pulled into a small smile, and then nodded his head to Carson, who stood and cleared his throat. "Mr. Barrow… Welcome back. I trust you're feeling better?"

"Much." Thomas replied curtly, doing a quick surveillance of everyone else's faces. Bates looked displeased, Anna worried… He inwardly rolled his eyes. "Thank you. I'll leave you to your lunch... Mrs. Patmore, if I could have a tray sent up to my room, I would be very grateful. I suppose, Mr. Carson, we'll be talking about when I can get back to work?" He nodded to the cook, who nodded. It felt good to be back in command. Hayden had taken that away, and he was desperate to get it back.

"Yes. We will." Carson said, raising a bushy brow at the other ordering Mrs. Patmore around, but let it slide this once. "… get some rest, Mr. Barrow."

And with that, Thomas exited the room.

"He looks much better than we expected," Bates said after a couple of minutes, clearing his throat.

"Yes. I do hope he is as well as he says he is," Mrs. Hughes commented, glancing at the place where the under-butler had been. "I would hate to think he's keeping it all inside…"

"I reckon Mr. Barrow will be just fine." Alfred confidently chimed up. "He's a strong man."

Jimmy's brow rose. It was funny how differently Alfred thought of Thomas now that his aunt was gone. He could only imagine what O'Brien would have said about all of this… That's why he wrote to her and told her what happened. He knew the history between them, and she would feel remorse and maybe even regret to hear Thomas was tortured so. He just hoped he had made the right decision…

"James?" Anna asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Are you all right? You seem to be thinking about something."

"I'm good, Anna." He said, giving her a wide smile. "I'm just thinking about how pleasing it is to see Mr. Barrow back on his feet. He worried me a bit."

"It's good to see you and him getting on so well, James." Mrs. Hughes commented, eying him wearily. "Your friendship has done Mr. Barrow some good."

Jimmy felt his smile weakening, even though he knew it was the truth. Thomas had been more cheerful since they started playing cards and reading newspapers and smoking together. However, he could not forget what the older man had said at the hospital… _Are you happy now?_ The guilt had swelled in his chest, and he cleared his throat. "Yes." He responded, not even sure how to respond to that. He turned back to his food, dismissing the conversation at hand.

Thomas saw two letters on his bed when he retired to his room. Curiously, they were both addressed to him. The first was from Callum Tyler. He scowled, almost tearing the envelope to pieces. Did that fool not realized that Thomas wanted nothing to do with him now? Not after everything. In fact, he did not even want to _think_ about their atrocious activities. It made him feel sick, so he put the letter away and would not bother with it.

The second letter, however, was from India. Who did Thomas know in India? His cousin? No, the handwriting seemed too neat for him. And then it dawned on him. Why was O'Brien writing him? Surely she had no idea what transpired and would not want anything to do with him after everything that occurred between him. Though he sunk into the bed and opened the letter to the best of his abilities with his currently lame hand.

He read over it silently, his lips twitching into a frown, eyes welling with tears. His grip tightened on the small piece of parchment, his heart racing in his chest. Thomas choked out a sob and dropped the letter, hiding his face with his arm and trying to stop the overwhelming feeling of emotion. Out of everything she could have said to him, he could read the sincerity in her sorrow over it all. How he _missed_ O'Brien! She would know what to do, how to help him cope… He'd always looked up to her. Damn it all, really.

Alfred stopped in front of his door with a tray, hearing the muffled sobbing. He felt awkward, unsure of what to do. Perhaps he had been wrong after all. He knocked upon the older man's door, waiting patiently outside of it. When he received no answer, he panicked. "Mr. Barrow? It's just me—Alfred. I've got your tr—"

"Go _away!_" was the shriek he received from the other side of the door, and Alfred didn't know how to run down the stairs fast enough. He should have known that this was only the beginning for Mr. Barrow's healing process, and he suddenly feared that the man was not as strong as he thought...


	3. and tell you once again

A/N: Sorry this took so bloody long! Unfortunately, I live in Boston and... yeah. I'm sure you all know. I'm also sorry that this chapter is shorter than the others. The next one is going to be a doosey, though. Promise. I hope you guys enjoy, even though I'm not proud of it.

* * *

"Have you been having any strange dreams?"

Thomas squirmed in his chair, feeling very uncomfortable. He didn't like talking about his feelings or other private things, such as his dreams or thoughts—especially with Doctor Clarkson. He would be wrong to say that the man wasn't trying to help him (and doing a much better job dealing with him than he ever did with Edward Courtenay). He played with his apple cap, gazing down to it, letting the good doctor see that there was a break in his stoic façade. "I—" He sighed heavily, closing his eyes for a second, seeing a flash of Hayden in front of his eyes. "Yes. But I wouldn't call them dreams." He murmured the last part, recalling how he woke up in a cold sweat several times in this past week and a half, imagining his tormentor attacking him. But the dreams were even worse than that, because he imagined all the men of the house taking turns torturing him, calling him atrocities, making sure he screamed in pain and…

"Do they have to do with the man that harmed you?"

"Yes," Thomas admitted weakly, squeezing the hat tightly in his hand. "But not only him. Sometimes…" He trailed off.

_Jimmy stood over him, watching as Thomas tried to get himself off the floor. "What's wrong, poof?" He asked, sending a kick into the older man's abdomen, knocking him down. He smiled with glee as Thomas gasped for breath, hugging himself. "Too weak to fight back? No wonder those men at the fair beat the bloody shit out of you. You're pathetic, Thomas." _

"_Jimmy, please—"_

"_You're not allowed to call me that." Jimmy said, pressing his foot against Thomas' chest, staring him down with cold, blue eyes. Those weren't Jimmy's eyes; they were Hayden's. But it was Jimmy who was speaking, who was hurting him. He couldn't take this. "You're not allowed to look at me." And he lifted up his foot—_

Thomas snapped out of his thoughts, seeing Dr. Clarkson gaze at him with sincere concern. It was odd. Shouldn't the other condemn him? He never thought Clarkson would be fine with his affliction. He cleared his throat, "Sometimes they involve everyone at Downton. They attack me, punish me…"

The white haired man nodded and wrote something down in his little book. That unnerved Thomas the most; he hated the fact that this was all documented. If anyone knew how this was what he really thought, that he was _weak_ and _pathetic_ and needed a doctor to help him…He didn't want to think of it. Even though Clarkson kept reassuring him that no one would know because of doctor-patient confidentiality, Thomas didn't feel quite comfortable about this all. It had been weeks now since his return to the abbey, and he thought he would be fine.

But he was far from it. The nightmares affected his work. Carson had called him out on it, but Thomas was still grateful to have a job even when his bleedin' hand wouldn't work properly. He had a newfound respect for Bates, though he would never admit it, because he felt as if he was working twice as hard sometimes to just get simple tasks done. He didn't need the sling anymore, but only two out of his five fingers were able to move. Clarkson didn't know how to explain that, but the wounds were still healing. He imagined Thomas would gain some feeling in them eventually—but eventually was too far away and way too uncertain for the under-butler's liking.

"Doctor," Thomas chimed up, staring at his desk—anywhere but him. "Will this feeling ever go away?"

"What feeling, Mr. Barrow?" Dr. Clarkson looked up from his writing to observe a man who looked several years younger than he was. It was as if he was staring at the footman from ten years ago, asking him about joining the Medical Corps. Except this man was very much unlike _that_ Thomas Barrow. He looked terrified, lost. He wondered if this was the true man that lies underneath the masks of confidence and cruelty.

"That I'm never going to be whole again," His voice sounded so hollow.

Clarkson didn't know what to say.

* * *

Thomas sat in the bar in Ripon, taking solace with alcohol on his much needed off time. Talking to Clarkson had made him feel so unsure about everything, and he wanted to get soused, wanted to just forget everything for a while. Sure, he'd make himself a bumbling idiot later, but at least he'd be able to smile and laugh in the meantime. He was only one drink in when a young woman sat next to him. Oddly enough, he felt he knew her; she seemed awfully familiar, though he couldn't place where…

Though she turned and smiled at him with a knowing gaze. Her ginger hair was cut into a bob, very similar to the way all the young girls were wearing them nowadays, and she dressed rather smartly, for success. And then the realization hit him.

The woman before him was none other than Gwen Dawson, former maid at Downton. She was the one who got away, the one who got her happy ever after. The last he'd heard (from Sybil during the war) was that she was happily employed as a secretary in London. So what brought her here of all places? Perhaps he was dreaming or having a drunken delusion, but he was neither drunk nor asleep. So the world was a small place. Funny. He cleared his throat. "Well, well… Long time no see, Miss Dawson."

"Oh, Thomas." Gwen smiled brightly; it twinkled in her eyes. She had matured these past ten years. "No need to be so formal around me. We were friends once. Though, I wouldn't be Miss Dawson, but Mrs. Dempsey." Though her smile faltered at the mention of her married title. Thomas' brow quirked. So she definitely got everything she wanted in life. How wonderful for her, really.

Then again, she was a good distraction, and from this angle he would admit how breathtakingly beautiful she was, freckles and green eyes and all. "Mrs. Dempsey? A lucky lad indeed." He couldn't stop himself from smiling. Sure, he had never been close to Gwen, but he hadn't been absolutely nasty to her if he remembered clearly.

"Unfortunately not," Gwen said tucking a loch of hair behind her ear. "He was killed in battle."

"Oh." He should have realized! Thomas pushed the thought away before rubbing a hand over his mouth. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It's been quite some time now." She responded. "How about you? Is there a Mrs. Barrow in your life now?"

Thomas felt his mouth go dry at the question. How could he respond to that? Did she not know about his disgusting truth? But if she didn't… if she hadn't realized or remembered… this could be a new slate. The wheels were turning in his head. If there was a woman who could fit the criterion he liked, it was Gwen. "I'm afraid not." He finally said, glancing down to the bar. "S'hard to really have someone while still in service."

"_You're_ still in service?" The flabbergast expression on her face was adorable. "I thought you of all people would have left by now. You had much greater plans, did you not?"

"Ah, I did, but sometimes things don't work out the way we've planned them." Thomas lamented briefly for a different life. "I'm under-butler at Downton now, just under Carson in command. So I suppose it's not all so bad. I managed to move up." He paused, tugging at his collar before saying, "Can I buy you a drink?"

She ordered a high ball. Their conversation continued, and Thomas found it was very easy to get in a little flirting here and there. She would giggle at his jokes and gently pushed him when he complimented her. A couple of hours passed, and they were leaning closer, legs touching, each having a good amount of alcohol in them. Their noses were almost touching, and she was murmuring what she had liked about her husband, and he was lamenting about a life that never was. It was then she noticed his gloved hand against the table. The black leather covered his entire hand—not in the same way his white glove had only hidden his palm and half of his two fingers.

"What's that, Thomas?" She asked curiously, reaching to put her hand on top of his, brushing her thumb against it.

"An old war wound," Thomas responded. "Lost feeling in most of me fingers." His Yorkshire accent was much thicker with his inebriated state. "Say, what brings you here, back to York?"

"I needed a change of pace." Gwen replied honestly, slurring her words a bit. "As much as I love the fast life of the city, I realized I missed the quiet life of the country. So I took up a job in town as a secretary for the local solicitor." She unconsciously caressed his glove, staring into his eyes. "I missed my old friends, too. Even though Sybil has passed…"

"Eclampsia." Thomas murmured, "What a shame. You should see how big her daughter's getting. She's becoming more and more like her every day. Mr. Branson takes very good care of her."

"I know he would. Sybil and I continued correspondin', and she wrote about how much she loved him. They were a match made in heaven, really… I saw it even when I was still at Downton. I was hoping they would manage. It's too bad the Lord took her away from him…"

"A damn right shame." Thomas concurred, turning his hand around to return the gesture, tracing some swirls against the palm of hers. She smiled at him, looking at him through her eyelashes in a very delightful way. He didn't think he could feel like this about a woman again, but he was proved very wrong, wasn't he? "Though He works in mysterious ways. He gave a better life to Branson, and to you."

"And He brought me back here," Gwen added, leaning closer. He could feel her breath against his lips. "Oh, Thomas, I always thought you rather handsome."

"And I thought you very pretty." He was now just staring at her lips as he waited. Her face was flushed red, and she took the initiative, pressing her plush lips against his own. They kissed like that in public, slowly, testing out the waters. There was something was twisted in the pit of his stomach, telling him that this was wrong, so _wrong_, and that her lips felt so… But he continued to kiss her until she pulled away, gasping for breath. Thomas swallowed, eying her curiously before seeing the clock out of the corner of his eye. "Er—I—"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Gwen murmured, though she didn't seem to be. And neither did he.

"No. You don't have to be. But—you'll be around, yes? I've got to go, but I can see if I can run some errands perhaps later this week… Where will you be working?" Thomas's heart was racing, and he could feel an uneasiness brewing. But he pushed it aside, because this was _right._ This was how he was _supposed_ to be: flirting and kissing **women.**Yes. This felt so wrong, it was right.

Gwen reached into her purse and ripped a page out of a small notebook. She scribbled an address and slid the paper over to him, smiling. "I'll be there until five." He took one look at what she'd written and then slid it into his pocket.

Instead of saying anything, he smiled goofily.

* * *

Thomas had a spring in his step as he entered Downton. This was the best he'd felt in probably a month, considering everything that happened. He could be heterosexual; it was entirely doable. No more would he think of toned, flat chests, and broad shoulders…

And blond hair.

No, no. He shook his head, stumbling into the door. He couldn't stop himself from giggling uncontrollably; the last time he felt like this was when he was a young boy who had just stolen his first kiss from the newspaper boy down the street… Thomas doubled over, his shoulders shaking with the laughter bellowing out of his mouth. He heard footsteps coming in from the servant's hall, but he couldn't pull himself together in time.

"Mr. Barrow?" Alfred asked, standing still like a frightened deer. It was strange to see him in such good spirits, considering…

"Ah! Alfred," The under-butler slurred, stumbling toward him. "C'mere, ya big brute!" He nearly lost his balance, but Alfred caught him. "I just met the most wonderful girl today."

Wait, _what?_

"What d'you mean, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas looked up at him, an almost manic look in his eyes, the smile never faltering. "You heard me, lad. A pretty little lass was talking to _me_ of all people."

"I didn't think you fancied girls…"

"I'm not a bender anymore, ya hear!" Thomas stood suddenly, glaring at the tall ginger. He pushed Alfred back, "M'not fancying any more men. S'disgustin'! And so bloody wrong."

The poor footman was speechless, defenseless against this now belligerent drunk before him. He glanced over his shoulder, hoping someone was around to help. "If—if you say so, Mr. Barrow. M'not one to judge anymore…"

"I do say so! You hear me!?" Thomas said, looking up at the ceiling, "I'm not into blokes anymore!"

"What is all this shouting?" Mrs. Hughes stormed downstairs, eyes narrowed, until she saw the state of utter humiliation that her under-butler was in. "Mr. Barrow! What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Hughes," He said, turning to her, "M'just not shocking and disgustin' anymore!"

Hughes' mouth hung agape. She glanced at Alfred, who desperately looked for some way to get out of there, afraid of the way the under-butler was acting. She eyed Thomas carefully before gently taking his arm. "Come to my office, Mr. Barrow…"

Alfred bolted out of the room as quick as possible. Thomas was mumbling to himself as the housekeeper led him to her office, silently trying to decide what the best course of action was to deal with this. It was only a matter of time before Thomas masks would wear off, that the pain he was feeling would come to surface… She just never expected it to come to this. Did the boy (he was still a boy to her) think he could just stop being that way? She helped him into the chair and went to make some tea, leaving him alone to—hopefully—calm down.

Thomas rubbed his hands against his knees before staring at his gloved hand, glaring at it, trying to will his fingers to move. "Gwen won't like you if you're a bloody cripple," He said silently, trying his damn hardest to make a fist. His fingers moved minutely, but he did feel them. Maybe he would heal after all. It was a sign, then, that Gwen was good for him and that all of this pain would go away if he decided to continue whatever this was with her. Yes. He could do this. Though, his thoughts were interrupted when Mrs. Hughes returned, eying him with a patient expression on her face.

"Now will you talk to me about what _that_ was all about, Mr. Barrow?"

He fidgeted in his chair a bit as he avoided her eyes, instead staring at the teapot on her desk. He could remember being here two years ago, sobbing and crying to her about _Jimmy_ and "the incident." Thomas had come a long way from that, hadn't he? He was straight. Now he didn't have to worry about that. He cleared his throat, brushing his porcelain hand through his ebony hair. "I've had a bit to drink. I apologize," He spoke, his Yorkshire accent thick as molasses.

"You know I don't mean about that, Thomas." Oh, she was a wise one, wasn't she? Thomas narrowed his eyes at her, mouth pressing into a thin line. He didn't have his wits about him right now; he was a loose canon, and he was almost afraid of letting himself loose on the only person who cared about him in the entirety of the house.

He decided to play dumb. "What do you mean, then?"

But she wasn't having it. "_I'm not shocking and disgusting anymore_. Does that ring any bells?"

"S'true." Thomas played with his glove uncomfortably. "I met a woman in a pub tonight, and we got on quite well. I realized that maybe I was wrong about the whole men thing. Well—I mean, 'course I was. Look where it got me."

Mrs. Hughes examined him carefully. She knew it would be futile to speak to him now in his intoxicated state, but she was especially worried about him now, considering this was the first he'd even brought this issue up to anyone at the house since being back from the hospital. She poured him a cuppa and slid it over to him. "I don't think you were ever wrong, Thomas." She said fondly. "But I won't scold you for doing what you believe is right. I just wonder if you'll be happy with this lass if you continue to pursue her."

"I'll be happy, all right. Happier than I ever was."

* * *

And surprisingly enough, he was. At least he thought he was. Thomas had a more jovial attitude on the days when he did see Gwen. It was a tough situation, because no one knew how to handle the under-butler. Some days he was cold as ice, as if he hated even the idea of _breathing_, but there were others where nowt could do wrong.

One of those days was today. Jimmy watched as the other hummed while checking up on the wine supplies. "Thomas?" He asked. They were alone.

"Jimmy?" Thomas turned to him, looking a bit surprised at the interruption. Though Jimmy began to notice the strange twitch that Thomas had every time he stared at the footman. It was unnerving in a way, as if he was holding something back.

"I –" The blond cursed for having been distracted by his thoughts. Now he forgot what he wanted to ask Mr. Barrow. "How's your hand?"

"Oh! It's doing much better, actually." Thomas held out the gloved hand, curling his fingers ever so slightly. "Each day I get more feeling back in my fingers. Feels awfully tingly."

"That's good." Jimmy responded. Something just wasn't right about this happiness that Thomas was feeling… it seemed forced. There wasn't a glow in his features or a sparkle in his eyes when he smiled. "What's got you in such a good mood?"

"I'll be seeing my gal tomorrow, actually."

And then there was that. Jimmy couldn't possibly imagine Thomas with a "gal." He eyed him with a raise of brow, "And when do we get to meet the lucky lady?"

"She an' I have been discussing it. Soon enough." Thomas winked, "I think you'll like her very much."

"S'that so?" Jimmy asked, moving closer to the under-butler. "What's she like?"

"She's beautiful," He responded, looking away, imagining the way Gwen's eyes twinkled when she smiled, her freckles, her ginger hair… Though she was so soft and just very curvy and when he brushed his hands over her breasts while they snogged, he wasn't particularly fond of the way they felt… all lumpy and round and—he grimaced. Jimmy took note.

"And?" The blond asked, taking another step forward.

"And—she's got a great personality and thinks I'm rather funny. And attractive."

"Well, you _are._ Anyone within a five mile radius could see that, Thomas," Jimmy said lightly, smiling ever so slightly.

Thomas' expression is suddenly unreadable. He looked away from the footman, gazing out to seemingly nowhere, lost in a trance of sorts. This gave the younger an opening in which he got very close to the under-butler, peering down at his work. Jimmy had been thinking for some time, and a fire of jealousy had burned from within every time this 'lucky girl' was spoken of. Did Thomas suddenly forget about him? In all of his pain and anguish, he had pushed aside his homosexual tendencies, but everyone knew that he was still a wonderful poof underneath it all… so why did Thomas hide it? Was he seriously afraid of God's wrath? It wasn't like he cared before…

"Don't say things like that." Thomas finally said, lowly, completely breaking his happy-go-lucky façade. "You may give people the wrong idea." And he nearly jumped when he turned to see Jimmy so bloody close. "When did you—"

"I'm not trying to give anyone the wrong idea." He urged, stepping closer. "Why do you hide behind this woman? Why are you doing this to yourself? You're not happy, Thomas. Everyone can see it."

"I'm bleedin' happy, for fuck's sake." Thomas growled. "No one can accept that, can they?"

"S'not like anyone can't suss out the situation. You're trying to make yourself like this girl, which isn't fair to her nor you—"

"I could say the same to you!" He suddenly shouted with a look that rivaled his mania in the hospital. "You're faffing about with Ivy—"

"I am not! I've tried to tell her countless times that I'm not into her, but she can't seem to understand English." How did this turn onto him? He was trying to get to the route of _Thomas'_ problem, though he didn't seem to be getting anywhere… "Anyway," He said as the other went to protest again, "I just want you to be happy, yeah? Real happy, Thomas. Not whatever is going on now…"

"But I am bloody happy," Thomas said in a defeated whisper, glancing back down at the list he had been reading.

As Jimmy studied his body language, he suddenly remembered why he approached the other in the first place. "Oh, you had a telegram." He offered it to the older man, who snatched it away.

"Thank you. Now _leave_."

* * *

Dr. Clarkson liked seeing how confident Thomas had become at their meetings. He was no longer trying to sink into his chair, and it seemed as if he was improving, slowly. This new girl in his life was making things considerably better (though, he—like everyone else in this scenario—was turning a blind eye on how strange it all was), but there was just something _off_ about Thomas that he couldn't quite place. He wrote down a note to himself and listened as the under-butler went on and on about his feelings about the whole situation.

"… almost glad that it happened to me." Thomas said, which caused sudden alarm in the good doctor.

"Sorry, what did you say, Thomas?" Dr. Clarkson said, forgetting the man's title from shock.

"I said I'm almost glad it happened to me," Thomas repeated, eying him with a sneer, "And that's Mr. Barrow, Doctor."

"But—I don't understand. Why would you say you are glad?"

"Because it's opened up a new world for me. I've realized that I can feel that way for women—"

"I know that what you are is illegal Thomas, but my office is safe. You don't have to hide anything from me."

"And I'm sayin' I have nothing to bloody hide anymore!" Thomas could feel the anger rising. "I'm happy—"

"Are you quite certain that this will make you happy? This rendezvous with this woman?"

"I'm happy!" Thomas asserted again, the anger building up the same way it had with Jimmy.

"Don't you think—"

"Why does everyone assert that I can't be happy like this? Why is it so strange for me to want a healthy heterosexual relationship!?" Thomas' slammed his fists down against the armchair in Clarkson's office.

"Mr. Barrow, calm yourself!" Clarkson said, his 'major' voice booming. That got Thomas to back down and nearly cower in his seat. The doctor should have realized that in this fragile state, it was not good to spur memories like _those_ from the war. He could see flashes of different emotions on Thomas' face before the lad sat still.

"… I'm sorry." Thomas muttered, looking down, playing with his glove.

Naturally, Clarkson felt guilt. He pinched the bridge of his nose before sighing. "You may go, Mr. Barrow. I only wish for you to be honest with me. I'll be here for when you decide the time is right."

* * *

_It was dark._

_Thomas lay staring at the ceiling, recalling today's conversations, scowling. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He was happy with Gwen now. She made everything all right. _

_But as they continued to doubt it, so did he._

_He reached over and read the telegram again:_

I'm coming to visit next week. I do hope you'll see me. – Callum

_He was surprised at himself for not throwing it out. He still hadn't read the letter; he refused to, but it was a comfort to know it was there. _

"_Have you already forgotten about me?" said an all too familiar voice. Thomas' eyes widened, and he turned to see the one and only Lieutenant Edward Courtenay sitting on the edge of his bed. "Sergeant, have you already forgotten what we could have had?"_

_Thomas sat up, pressing his back against the metal headboard. "Edward, what—what do you mean? What are you doing here?"_

"_If you had convinced me not to do it, we could have been happy now, living in France." Edward placed a hand on Thomas' leg. "You could have shown me a whole new world."_

_His touch felt so_ real_. Thomas could feel the emotions bubbling in his chest, "Ed—I wish I had been there. I would have stopped you. I wanted that life. God, you know I did—"_

"_Then why do you hide it now? Why do you cower in fear? Is it because of me?" Edward had morphed into Rhys Hayden, who got on top of the bed, on top of him. He pulled Thomas down and grabbed his neck. "Did I scare you into hiding, poofter? Have you realized your sinful ways?"_

"_H-Help—" Thomas gasped, reaching for the door, looking anywhere but up. "Help!"_

"_No one will save you. No one cares. They watch you and laugh while you tried to be something you're not. Why don't you just end it? End your suffering here on Earth."_

"_Come be with me," Edward said softly, reaching for Thomas' hand, squeezing it._

"_You deserve to die anyway."_

"_You know we can be happy."_

_"Stop it—"_

"_Thomas—"_

_"Bender—"_

"_Die." The word was repeated over and over and over and over and _over_ and—_

Thomas awoke screaming, fighting against his blanket, kicking and punching air, falling out of the bed. He began to sob, hugging himself closely, shaking, unmoving. This was the first time he'd had a dream that stirred him like this.

He could hear banging on his door. "Mr. Barrow!" It was Carson's voice. "What is the meaning of this!"

"Leave me alone!" Thomas yelled, hiding his head, not wanting to get yelled at—not wanting Carson to hate him even more.

"We're coming in this instant!"

And the door swung open. Carson, Jimmy, and Alfred stood in the doorway, witnessing Thomas in this fetal position, a sobbing wreck. The three of them had no idea what to do, no way of knowing how to console him.

"He – he was_ here_. At Downton," Thomas whispered. "He was here."

Jimmy was the first to snap out of it and was quickly at Thomas' side. "Who? Who was here?" He placed a comforting hand on the under-butler's shoulder. Thomas had no problem of latching onto him and crying in that moment, too shaken for words.

"Oh _Jimmy_," He said in such a low voice that only the footman could hear him. Jimmy glanced back at Carson and Alfred.

"I've got it. Go back to bed."

Carson gave him a pointed look before exiting. Alfred was hesitant to leave. "Are you sure you've got it under control?"

"Yes, Alfred."

"… but why now? S'been months."

"How should I know? Now get your arse out of here before I come over there and make you leave!"

Alfred didn't need to be told again. He scurried out, closing the door behind him.

Jimmy hushed Thomas and rocked him back and forth, letting the older man cry against him. "It's all right, Thomas. He won't get you. You're safe here."

"But he was – he was there. He was choking the life out of me." Thomas murmured, lost in a trance. This was finally the first time he acknowledged it. This had to be part of the healing process. He was finally letting those demons out.

Not thinking before he acted, Jimmy kissed the top of Thomas' head, prompting the under-butler to hold him tighter. "I'll protect you, Thomas. No one will get you."

Thomas sniffled and looked up at him with red and puffy eyes. "You mean it, Jimmy?" He seemed to very young there, so very vulnerable. Jimmy could feel his own eyes prickling with tears.

"With every fiber of my being, Thomas." He smiled sadly. Of course it took this long for him to come to terms with his feelings for the older man. Now that Thomas was off with Gwen and mentally destroyed, Jimmy Kent realized he loved him. How foolish. How selfish of him. But he'd be damned if he didn't try to win back Thomas' affections and help him realize that he wasn't wrong. That he wasn't damned to hell. That he could feel love, because Jimmy would show him how to do it all over again.

"Could you stay? Please? I can't – I don't –" Thomas felt so childish for asking, but he did feel safe in Jimmy's arms. It was just for tonight. No one had to know.

Jimmy hesitantly looked back at the door, knowing the others wouldn't like it. However, he couldn't just leave Thomas like this, not so openly broken. He continued to rub circles into the man's back, pressing another kiss atop his head, but leaving his lips there. He sat like that for a good moment, feeling Thomas relaxing in his grip. "I'll stay. Come on, let's get you back into bed."

Naturally, all good things come to an end in the world of Thomas Barrow.

When Thomas awoke that morning, he felt a pair of arms around him, holding him close. He blinked a couple of times before leaning into the touch, relaxing as he felt the other's heartbeat. That was when he realized that there was _another person_ in _his_ bed_._ His eyes widened, and he jumped out of it, waking up the poor bastard as he did so.

His mouth hung open, eyes widened as he saw the one and only Jimmy in his bed, looking rather sleepy as he squinted at Thomas. "Is it time to wake up, then?" The blond asked so innocently.

Thomas was going to vomit. "Why were you in bed with me?"

"You had a nightmare last night, and –"

"And what? You took advantage of my weak state? No _wonder_ why being a poof is so bloody wrong—"

"Bleedin' hell, Thomas! You're the one who begged me to stay last night." Jimmy was wide awake now and sitting up, ready to defend himself.

"Begged you? A likely story. And why would _you_ of all people stay anyway! I thought you weren't like that!"

"I lied." Jimmy said with a dark gaze. "I lied, yeah? I am _that way_, and you know what? I bloody fancy you. So there. Take it or leave it."

Wait.

Wait, wait, _wait._

No. This wasn't happening right now. Thomas really was going to be sick. He had to be dreaming. This would never happen, not in a million years—

No. It didn't even matter. He was in love with Gwen now, not Jimmy. Never Jimmy. Jimmy was off limits. If Jimmy was on the wrong side of the fence, then it was a shame on him. He would burn in hell, and Thomas would go to heaven.

Jimmy couldn't have been that way. He wasn't the one with sinner carved into his back. He didn't endure _days_ of beatings and torture because he was in love with the wrong sex. He must have been dreaming. He had to be.

He was sick all over the floor and his underclothes. Thomas dropped to his knees into it, feeling nausea and vertigo overcome him. Jimmy was out of the bed like lightening, at his side in no time. He was rubbing his back, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear, telling him it would be all right, it would be fine—

And Thomas suddenly remembered his nightmare and sobbing all over Jimmy like a damsel in distress. He began to drive heave, having nothing left in his stomach to throw up. The bile taste was strong on his tongue, and if he could have died then and there, he would know that there was a God. He wouldn't cry in front of Jimmy, not again. He had to be a man, and men didn't cry.

But why couldn't he stop sobbing?

* * *

Thomas sat silently at breakfast, pale as white lace. Everyone glanced at him at one point or another, but he hadn't touched his food. In fact, looking at it made him feel the overwhelming urge to vomit. He finally pushed the dish away and rubbed circles in his temples, letting out a deep breath.

"Mr. Barrow, perhaps you should take the day off," Mrs. Hughes said on his left. Bless her, really. She was always looking out for him, but Thomas couldn't imagine Carson approving. Though the butler didn't retort.

"No. I'm fine. Besides, it's my half day, and I'm supposed to see Gwen."

There was suddenly silence. Thomas realized what he'd said and looked up to see shock on the faces of the people who _knew_ Gwen.

"Gwen? As in _Gwen Dawson_?" Anna asked. "Is she your sweetheart, Thomas?"

Thomas was certain it was unhealthy to wish death upon yourself several times in one morning. He pressed his face into his hands, wishing they would all go away. He mumbled, "Yes."

They were all talking to him, but he couldn't hear anything they were saying. He was just trying to think of a way to hide, but everywhere he turned at Downton there would be someone who knew something about him. There was no escape from this place. He was suffocating.

He didn't remember how he got outside, but he felt out of breath. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and he dropped down on the grass. Staring up at the sky, Thomas wondered what he did to deserve this—all of it. The torture, the false concern of others… Gwen.

Callum…

_Jimmy._

Thomas held out his hands to the clouds, trying to grab them, wondering if they felt soft and cool. He wondered what it would be like to fly high above them, away from everyone. He had quite the imagination sometimes, and that was why he was so fond of mythical creatures. (For some odd reason, he was transfixed by unicorns. The sheer notion of them was beautifully astounding.) He sighed, inhaling a large gulp of fresh air, and imagined being there—with Gwen.

Happy.

Surely, this was what happiness could feel like—like he was on top of the world, that he could do no wrong with his lovely lady at his side… But the clouds turned gray on him, and he could make out the silhouette of Rhys Hayden in the sky, watching him, waiting for his cockup that would get him killed.

He couldn't let that happen.

* * *

Gwen could sense something was off the minute she saw him. He didn't look quite like himself. Dark bags were under his eyes, purple and yellow coloring against his milky-white skin. She frowned and walked up to him, taking his good hand in hers. "What's wrong? They haven't been overworking you, have they?" She asked and leaned to press a kiss on his cheek.

He exhaled a soft sigh, squeezing her hand a bit, before bringing it up to his lips and kissing it. "I told them. It was an accident, but I told them—"

"Oh, Thomas! What did they say? Nothing terrible, I hope."

Thomas swallowed, looking anywhere but her. He tried to smile. "Well, they were shocked, but I didn't really stick around for their reactions, I'm afraid. I've had a terrible migraine all morning, and it has unfortunately carried on until now…"

Gwen moved in front of him, cupping his cheeks. "There's nothing wrong about us, all right? I don't want you to feel sad because of it. And if you're feeling too crummy, we could go back to my flat, and I could cook us dinner, instead of us going out tonight."

Thomas inched closer and nudged his nose against hers, putting his hands on top of her smaller ones, staring into her eyes. When did he get so lucky?

A flash of a memory in his mind: Philip, the Duke of Crowborough, held him like this. Thomas looked into his eyes and smiled as the other man caressed his cheek. He had been happy then—

And he _was_ happy now. He had to be! Why was his chest tightening with emotion if he wasn't? He kissed the corner of her mouth and rested their foreheads together. "You're so very good to me when I don't deserve it."

"Oh, Thomas… silly boy." Gwen murmured, moving one hand to brush her fingers through his ebony hair, not minding the pomade. "Come on, let's get you out of here. You can sleep while I cook." She pulled back and smiled brightly, happiness sparkling in her eyes. He wondered if he looked like that when he smiled.

* * *

_You should be horsewhipped!_

"_Mr. Carson, please!" _

"_Shut up, boy!"_

"_Jimmy, Jimmy please, help –"_

"_What's wrong, Mr. Barrow? Can't handle a few whippings? May I, Mr. Carson?"_

"_Jimmy – you said you'd protect me – you – Ah!"_

"_Take that you vile, disgusting-!"_

"_Jimmy, stop! _Jimmy!"

Thomas jerked forward and sat up, eyes wide and wild. His breaths came out in quick succession, and sweat coated his forehead and tickled the back of his neck. His surroundings didn't look familiar, and he felt a strong nausea overcome him. He was out of the bed like lightning and out the door, trying to find the bathroom—

"Thomas?" Gwen's voice called after him from the kitchen, "Thomas, are you all right?"

He didn't really hear her, though, as he vomited all over her hallway floor. Would he never be able to sleep peacefully again? His nights had been restless for weeks now, plaguing him with those damnable thoughts. It was because they were all questioning him; it had to be. He wheezed, on his fours on the floor, feeling a comforting hand on his back, hearing Gwen's voice but not really listening to the words she spoke. Instead, he thought about that look of glee on Jimmy's face at Thomas' realization of betrayal in his dream, and then he dry heaved.

"Oh, Thomas…" Gwen said, pulling him close, stroking his hair.

The tears had started again, and he held her, trying to remember what it was like to hold Jimmy that night. Gwen wasn't enough, and he was slowly realizing it. He sobbed into her shirt, trying to control himself, but he couldn't. He was mourning for the life he could never have, the life he would have to have, and all the pain that was bubbling inside.

"It can't be all that bad, can it?" She asked softly, placing kisses in his hair, soothing him. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not quite sure you would understand," Thomas responded, finally, lowly as he pulled away, looking as miserable as he felt. "But it's nothing for you to worry about, Gwen, surely."

"You can trust me, Thomas." She urged, worried. He'd always been so wonderful; he never showed signs like this before, except recently… "Has something happened at Downton?"

"No," He said weakly, wiping his tears, exhaling a deep breath before looking at the mess. "Oh dear, let me –"

Gwen shook her head. "No, I've got it. Go lie on the couch, Thomas. I'll bring you some tea."

And so he did. As she cleaned, he stared at the ceiling. The exhaustion came over him, and his eyes slowly drooped… Until he saw a flash of Jimmy and Hayden when his eyes shut. Thomas sat up, panting, sweat coating his body. Gwen was staring with the most sincere concern. He couldn't take it. He was up and pacing around in no time, hands shaking. She was so unsure of what to do, how to help.

"Thomas—"

"I'm sorry," Thomas said lowly, standing still, watching her. "I need—I need fresh air, Gwen. I won't take long."

Before she could say anything, he was out the door. Gwen pressed her lips together, hoping that he would be fine. She couldn't imagine that telling the downstairs Downton staff of their relationship was setting him off like this. What could have happened? She finished cleaning and hesitantly walked back to the kitchen, wondering if she should follow…

Thomas stood outside, sucking down a fag, his mind foggy with blurred memories and nightmares. He hid from plain sight by standing in the alleyway of Gwen's flat.

_"What?"_

_"You look a lot younger with your hair like that." Callum observed. "You're quite the specimen, Thomas Barrow."_

_"Oh stop. You'll make me blush." Thomas bit back playfully, though a shade of red crept on his cheeks._

He tensed, hands shaking.

_"You're so beautiful," Callum murmured in his ear, holding him closely._

Thomas refused to acknowledge his tears.

_"Come over tomorrow night? Please?"_

He choked a sob and sank down the wall into a crouching position.

_"How did that feel, sinner? Doesn't feel too good, does it? You'll feel much worse in hell. You can repent for your sins, and I'll give you salvation. What do you say?"_

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, smacking the side of his head with his palm, trying to make them go away. "Damn it, _damn it—"_

"_You're safe now."_

"_But it's nice to feel safe, if only in my dreams."_

He chewed right through the cigarette and spat it out, grabbing his hair, pulling at it, trying to make the voices go away.

"_Thomas—I know we parted on a harsh note. I look back to both of our actions in our last year together, and I regret my stubborn relentlessness in trying to do you harm. I cannot say why I was so angry with you, but I'm not anymore…_

_I can't believe this happened to you. You were always so careful, even with the Blondie-boy. I hope you're all right, I really do. I always thought of you like a son…_

_I care not to know what you think of me these days, but I want you to know that I am once again on your side._

_O'Brien."_

She couldn't have really meant it, _could_ she? No—he was vile and terrible and disgusting and _disgusting—_

"_I'm not a bender anymore!"_

Thomas's eyes shot open, and he stared at the brick wall across from him. He was not a bender anymore. That's right. His days as a poofter were over, regardless what Jimmy tried to pull on him earlier. He would not let himself be swayed. He was in love with Gwen Dawson and no one else. Not Callum Tyler, not Edward Courtenay, not Philip, and especially _not_ Jimmy Kent. Thomas rose slowly from the wall and wiped his eyes, feeling strangely at peace. The voices stopped, and he knew what he had to do.

Gwen heard the door open and glanced over her shoulder. "Thomas, is that you? Dinner is almost ready." When he came into view, he looked different. She couldn't quite place it, but he was still awfully pale. She gave him a wide smile, trying to reassure what he told her: he was fine.

She did not expect him to kiss her so fiercely out of nowhere. Her eyes shot open, but she responded eagerly in spite of the taste of cigarette on Thomas' tongue. He grunted into her mouth and wrapped his arms around her waist. Gwen pulled away, breathless, swatting his shoulders. "You'll spoil dinner!" But she couldn't stop her grin.

"I don't care." Thomas asserted, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. "I need you. Now."

Could she really deny him? She had been hoping for this for weeks now, but she'd been too bashful to ask. Gwen ran her fingers through his hair, pondering whether it was worth it to ruin dinner now. Perhaps they could go to a pub later! That was the simple solution, so she turned off the stove and kissed him again.

Thomas tugged her into the hallway and then the bedroom as the kissing continued. He pressed her against the wall roughly and tugged her shirt from her skirt. Gwen squeaked in his mouth and pulled away, saying breathlessly, "You weren't kidding." She giggled. He smiled at her, sliding his hand to cup her breast. She let out a low moan as he brushed his thumb over her nipple. "Oh, Thomas—"

He kissed her neck and moved her away from the wall, gently pushing her onto the bed. Gwen pulled herself up more and tugged at his undershirt, pulling it right off as he worked on the buttons of her shirt. They kissed again, tongues meeting, and she raked her nails up his back.

All of a sudden, she pulled away, confusion in her eyes. "What's that?"

Thomas' paled as he felt her brushing her fingers over the scarred skin. He didn't answer, instead trying to kiss her again, but she moved her face away and sat up.

"Thomas, what is that?" She asked and tried to see over his shoulder. He cowered away, not wanting to show her. She couldn't see; she wouldn't understand— "Thomas! You can show me. You can trust me. I'm sure it's not as bad as you're making it out to be."

The under-butler grimaced. Oh, how wrong she was. He lowered his head in defeat and sat down on the bed, turning around…

Gwen gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.


	4. don't tell me that you're scared

A/N: This one's a doosy. There is extreme depression and desperation in this one. Read at your own risk.

* * *

"_It doesn't hurt. Not much," _Edward said in his ear as Thomas gazed at himself helplessly in the mirror. The younger man was as gray as he was on the day he died, but he was still standing there behind Thomas, a comforting arm around his shoulders as the under-butler held his razor in hand. _"It stings for a bit, and then you start to feel cold and tired." _He leaned in, whispering tauntingly into the miserable man's ear, _"And then, nothing."_

"Nowt?" Thomas whispered, looking at the blade. It glistened in the dim light of his bedroom. "No pain?"

"_No pain. No more suffering. You feel at peace. You can still go to heaven; you've repented for your sins."_

"For loving you."

"_For hating yourself."_

Thomas snapped back up to the mirror, but Edward was gone. He looked at himself long and hard, trying to recognize the man reflected back at him. He was nearly as gray as Edward had been, with dark bags under his eyes and pale lips. He looked on the brink of death, didn't he? He exhaled a deep sigh and set the razor down. Now was not the right time, but it would come.

He slicked his hair back with pomade and fixed his tie before exiting the room.

It had already been days since Gwen had seen his back. They weren't on speaking terms at the moment. In fact, he was quite sure he would never see her again. It was ironic, because he had planned to ask her to marry him. Though now he wasn't so sure what lied ahead in his future, because his present already seemed so bleak and empty. He'd gone to Clarkson and sat for forty-five minutes in silence as the doctor tried to get a word out of him on what happened. He couldn't actually say. Not that it mattered; everyone thought he wouldn't be happy anyway, and they were right.

They all looked at him with discreet glances of worry or concern. It was getting on his nerves, but he was too lost inside of himself to voice his anger over their sentiment. But the fact that he looked like the walking dead was very unnerving, especially to the young blond who had his eyes locked on Thomas since he'd gotten into the room.

He turned toward Jimmy, flashes of the other holding him lighting up in his head, and he recalled the other's words:

"_I lied, yeah? I am that way, and you know what? I bloody fancy you. So there. Take it or leave it."_

Thomas scowled, clutching his fork tightly. "Stop looking at me." He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but it was too late to take it back now.

Jimmy visibly recoiled before snorting and shaking his head. He went back to his breakfast without a word, but the others were glancing hesitantly between them. He couldn't take Thomas being so damn self-destructive, but he didn't know how to help. Either Thomas was cold and heartless, or he was clutching onto Jimmy, begging him to make it all stop. He didn't know _how_ to help, but his ego got in the way when Thomas spoke to him in such a way.

"All of you, stop looking—" Thomas said suddenly, staring now at his breakfast. "Stop tearing me apart with your _glances_. I know! I know, all right!"

The confusion on everyone's face made Jimmy stand as Thomas did. "Mr. Barrow—"

"I know what you're all thinking!" He held out his hands, making a big spectacle out of himself. "Why doesn't he just off himself, the sod? Can't even keep a bloody _girlfriend_, the miserable poof—"

"Mr. Barrow!" Mrs. Hughes was on her feet by Thomas' side, but before she could grab him, he stepped away.

"Well I'm _sorry_ I'm not bloody brave enough! I tried, yeah? That should be enough, shouldn't it! Or do you all _hate_ me that much—"

"What is the meaning of this foolish talk!" Carson bellowed, making Thomas fall silent. "Mr. Barrow, what has gotten into you?"

The under-butler stood there, eyes locked on the table. He didn't answer at first, staring blankly, fingers twitching helplessly at his side. He opened his mouth, trying to form words, but couldn't.

Daisy, bless her heart, was the one to save the day, though. She walked in with another helping of potatoes, saw Thomas, and proceeded to grab him by the arm and drag him away from the table. He went willingly, in a state of shock from his outburst.

"How do we deal with this?" Carson asked loudly, sighing heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That man is leading himself to ruin. He should pull himself back together."

"I'm afraid it's not easy for him," Bates spoke up, looking surprisingly guilty. "He's experiencing shell shock, Mr. Carson."

"But the war happened—"

"This is a different kind," Jimmy said as he walked toward the hall where Daisy had dragged Thomas off. "He's fallen into himself because he won't let anyone help—"

"I think he has put it in his head that we _don't_ want to help him." Anna said lowly, remembering her plea in the hospital. She should have known then that he wouldn't let anyone in.

"I'm going to talk to Mr. Branson," Mrs. Hughes said firmly. From what she gathered, he had been the only one who had gotten through to Thomas, especially right after the incident. They didn't know how to cope with this situation, and their concern was only hurting Thomas in the long run. Carson looked at her incredulously and then nodded at her glare.

"Very well, but see to it that this does not affect Mr. Barrow's work any longer. I grow tired of these shenanigans."

"Are you really that heartless, Mr. Carson?"

Everyone stared at Bates. Carson looked scandalized; the valet would not tell him off. However, before he could say anything, the other continued: "Must you really be so unsympathetic toward him? It's obvious to everyone here that Thomas—_Mr. Barrow_'s whole world is spiraling out of control before him, and no matter what the poor young man does, nothing seems to make it better. We're not helping him by trying to treat him normally, but he's so afraid that we don't want to help him out of the kindness of our hearts. He thinks we'll want something in return, and he doesn't have anything to give. You may not understand at all how he feels. I hope that no one else has to live with that kind of pain, but I will not sit here and allow you to be so antagonistic to a man who is in dire need of compassion and terrified to ask for it. He's turned us against him without us lifting a finger, and he doesn't need _you_ to confirm just how bloody useless he feels. We have been unsympathetic to him before, when we thought he deserved it, and in spite of it all—he still finds himself unworthy of our kindness. The least we could do is try, and if it involves bringing the king here to pardon Thomas for his sins, then I say we go out of our way and try."

Anna was the most surprised by her husband's outburst, but the rest of the staff all seemed to suddenly realize why Thomas had these small attacks at their meal times. Alfred bowed his head, feeling awfully guilty after making some comment to some of the hall boys the other day about Mr. Barrow that he was sure the under-butler had overheard. Jimmy's brow rose curiously, and he was torn to see Carson's reaction or to go check that Daisy wasn't making matters worse for Thomas. His worry for the other won out, and he hurried out of the hall.

Carson cleared his throat and stuck his nose into the air, not having a word in response to that. He would take Bates words into consideration; however, he had a reputation to maintain, so he turned on his heel and left silently. Mrs. Hughes sighed heavily when he was gone. "I don't understand how he can _still_ be so against Mr. Barrow after how much he's changed over these past years. We all can admit that he was an awful lad back in his footman days, but he has become quite the respectable man. I agree with you wholeheartedly, Mr. Bates. Thank you for articulating that much needed explanation for Mr. Carson. I believe you got through to him."

Bates only nodded, looking a bit pale. Anna sat at his side and gently placed her hand on his shoulder, knowing why he looked so ghastly. With his words was the admission of his own hypocrisy. He could remember Thomas in the hospital, so lonely and fragile, and he still found it easy to be cruel to him—even after seeing the man at his worst more than once. He clutched his cane tightly and made it a promise to make it up to him. "May I talk to Mr. Branson, Mrs. Hughes?"

"You may."

"I'll go to him right after breakfast."

"Very well."

* * *

Daisy crouched in front of Thomas, resting her arms on her knees, trying to look into his eyes even though he kept avoiding her gaze. He hadn't said a word since she pulled him outside. He was the epitome of loneliness. She honestly could not think of a time when she saw a person so visibly heartbroken, and she was going to try to figure out why. First, though, she just allowed this silence, because it seemed to be something he needed.

Even though there had been some bad blood between them after she found out about his ill intentions toward her during her first year at Downton, she had grown to like Thomas very much—in spite of the lying. She could see through him, even though he didn't want anyone to, but she always played it off as if she was daft and ignorant because it was easier to keep an eye on him that way. But in all truth, Daisy was so much wiser than she looked. She knew Thomas' sort, knew how blindly in love he had been with Jimmy just by the way he had looked at the blond years ago, and she realized why he had led her on—to prove that he could.

And now here he was, broken and confused and in need of a friend, in need of that comforting hand that she placed on his knee. Daisy had been waiting for years to extend this friendship to him and to have him accept, and there had been an inkling of it once he'd been promoted to valet. They'd been very kind to each other ever since, but on no other level then formalities (except his attempt to help her—albeit unsuccessful—was still much appreciated when Mrs. Patmore wouldn't promote her to assistant cook right away). Now was the perfect time to once again offer than hand to him and hope that he would suck in his pride and take it.

She would be lying if she said her heart didn't flutter when his pale, sweaty hand gently touched hers. Daisy offered him a warm smile. "You don't have to tell me what's goin' on in that head of yours, Mr. Barrow, but I've got a listenin' ear if you wish to tell." She squeezed his knee.

Those blue hues flickered on her every few seconds as Thomas fought for the words. He was at war with himself, it seemed, trying to figure out whether or not it was a good idea. "I—" He stuttered, cursing internally. How did the most basic human functions escape him so easily? "I didn't think Gwen would be so angry with me." He said softly; it was honestly the first thing he thought of that could be harmless enough to admit in his time of great sorrow. Daisy was a young woman, and he didn't know if she could take or even understand what had happened to him. He wasn't so sure he could handle it himself any longer.

"_Are you daft?"_ said a voice in his ear. _"Corporal, you've got nothing to gain from admitting anything to this girl. How can she help you?"_

His eyes glazed over, and he sucked in a deep breath, body trembling so very badly that he couldn't even light the cigarette that he needed to smoke for a distraction.

"Why was she angry with you, Thomas?" Daisy asked, frowning. They had never quite understood how Thomas and Gwen became sweethearts, because one minute the man had exclaimed they were and that very night he came back, white as a sheet, and asserted that he and the once-maid were no longer an item.

"Because I lied to her." Thomas admitted lowly, not even caring that she said his Christian name at this point. He didn't deserve his title if he couldn't pull himself together enough to focus on his job. "Because I made her believe that I was something I wasn't—"

"_Oh my God, Thomas! What—how—who?" Gwen could feel the tears in her eyes as she stared as his ruined skin. She hesitantly reached to touch it, tracing her fingers over the letters scarred on his back. "Who has done this to you?"_

"_I have—" Thomas' voice was two octaves higher than normal, and he sounded like he was on the brink of tears again. He inhaled a shaky breath, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a ball and die. "I am not the man you think I am, Gwen." _

"_I'm sure you're just—"_

"_No." Forlorn, he turned to her, with the blankest expression he could muster. "This—this between us—" His voice cracked as he moved away from her, knowing he let this go on for _too_ long. "It's a lie. Everything has been a lie. I tried so fucking hard—" He didn't care that he spoke so obscenely in front of her. It was over. "I can't." He rubbed his hands over his face and moved away from her touch when she tried to grab his wrist. _

"_You can't?" Gwen asked, suddenly on the offensive. "What ever do you mean, Thomas? What have you been lying to me about?"_

_Thomas moved away from the bed, reaching to grab his undershirt, afraid of himself for what he was about to say. "I'm different. I don't like women. I tried for you. Honestly, I did. I wanted to love you." He turned to her, clutching his shirt so tightly that his knuckles turned white. The horrified look on her face was forever imprinted in his memory. _

"Thomas," Daisy spoke softly, "why did you lead her on like that? Was it like…" She trailed off. Thomas knew what she meant and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was very much unlike the situation ten years ago, when he was trying to one-up William and prove he could woo a woman in spite of being a homosexual.

"S'because it's so wrong to be who I am. I just wanted to try and see if it would make me happy... I used her, though. And there's nothing I can do to make that better."

"Did you tell her about what happened to you?"

"I couldn't." Thomas also couldn't look at her. "I was just hoping I could be _normal._"

Daisy frowned deeply and dared to move closer, moving her hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks and looking into those teary blue hues. He looked so tired, so exhausted both mentally and physically—by the way his shoulders slumped and gaze looked blank—that it really did hurt her, too. She could feel the pain radiating off him. "Oh, Thomas…" She said, lips twitching into a frown as she brushed her thumbs against his face, knowing that this sort of touch was inappropriate, but they were alone and he needed comfort. "Thomas, you are normal. You can't change who you are, not something like this."

"If I'm normal then why is it illegal for me to be this way?" Thomas asked, leaning into her touch ever so slightly, giving in to her.

"_Not worth it. She doesn't mean it."_

"Because everyone else is daft and bloody stupid." Daisy forced herself to smile, nearly saying his words from years ago verbatim.

"One man ruined my whole world, Daisy," He admitted lowly, closing his eyes, a stray tear trickling down his cheek. "One man. That's all it took." His hands were shaking, and he dropped his cigarette to the ground. "My whole life I've been afraid something like this would happen—even though I was so _sure_ of who I was—and now it's like I've been thrown into a deep, dark hole and I can't see the light—" He opened his eyes, staring into hers. "I can't see the light."

Jimmy stared from the open door, seeing just how fragile Thomas let himself be in front of Daisy. If only he could show the older man how open he could be with him. Jimmy wanted to listen—to help—to hold him and wish for it to be all right. It was funny that something like this, something terrible, should rise a need to be himself. He was just as terrified of being found out, that was why he had been so angry when Thomas kissed him because he _was_ sending mixed signals but he didn't want to lead the other on too much; it had just been nice getting the attention. But Thomas' attack should have made him cower into the closet even more. However, his chest ached whenever he saw the ebony-haired man, and something inside of him just kept saying _tell him already, love him. Help him love you._ He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a deep breath before turning back. Now was not the best time, and Daisy looked like she had the situation under control.

* * *

"So, it's taken this long, then." Branson rubbed a hand over his mouth, falling into the armchair of the library. He closed his eyes for a moment:

"_It hurts! Please—please I'm sorry I—"_

He smiled at Bates tiredly, eying the older man before him before extending his hand to the chair across from him. "Please sit, Mr. Bates. I want you to tell me everything you know about Mr. Barrow." To be honest, Tom knew it wouldn't just go away, but it had been so quiet for so long. Clarkson told him that Thomas had been healing, but now it seemed the man took a turn for the worst. If what Bates was saying was true… "How many times has he snapped like that?"

"This was only the second time." Bates tentatively sat on the chair, glancing over his shoulder. Though he knew anyone in the house wouldn't mind if he was sitting on the furniture, especially since Tom was with him. He sighed, clutching his cane tightly, recalling the ghastly pale face of the under-butler at breakfast. "The first was when we spoke about his sweetheart." He cleared his throat. "Gwen. Gwen Dawson."

Tom sat up, eyes widened. "What?"

"Yes. But apparently things went sour between them. He won't say, but I think she found out about…" John trailed off, staring at the floor, "How is it possible?"

"That she found out? I'm sure there are ways, Mr. Bates—"

"No." Bates spoke softly, resting his elbows against his knees, knowing he shouldn't be so comfortable around a member of the family, but he knew Tom. "How is it humanly possible to keep all of that inside for so long? Mr. Branson, it's been months. Nearly a half-year since the incident, and he's bared it all with a smile—for the most part. I know when I was out of prison, I was weeping to my wife, but at least I had someone. Did Thomas really think none of us would listen?" He slowly looked up at the younger man, as if this man had the answers to his guilt. His hand became a fist, and he hit himself in the knee. "Have we really made him so afraid of us? Of what we'll think? We were on _his_ side when O'Brien tried to get him fired!"

Tom needed a drink. He got up and walked over to the bar, pouring two glasses of watered down brandy and held one out to Bates, who took it. "I don't know particulars, since I was in a mind of me own, but Robert did tell me enough… I mean, if anyone else was put in that position, what would the outcome be, Mr. Bates? Remember when I nearly poured the slop over the General?" He paused, letting his point sink in. "I was barely reprimanded. It was a stupid mistake. What Thomas did was _also_ a stupid mistake, and he was going to be fired and thrown out with just the clothes on his back with no hope of a future ahead of him—from what I understand, clearly there's always been a bias _against_ him. We haven't necessarily given him any reason to trust us, even though most of us knew."

Bates stared at him desperately, "But he hadn't given us any reason to trust him—"

"I know he did you wrong, Mr. Bates." Tom said, remembering very well the gossip about what Thomas and O'Brien had done to Bates when he first arrived at Downton. "I _know_. But after the incident, I've begun to think about _why_. Sybil always said he was such a lovely soul—a little rough around the edges at first, but she offered him friendship in a way we didn't know how. Plus he had that devil whispering in his ear the whole bloody time. I was willing to look past his rough exterior, his need to protect himself, and… well. I suppose he is rather lovely." He knocked back the drink in two large gulps. "I saw the way he interacted with a man he'd met in Borrowby, and it was just as if I were flirting with Sybil, or you with Anna." He lamented, remembering how frightened Callum was when they couldn't find him.

"The world is a sad and cruel place, Mr. Branson, to have morphed a man who could have been a wonderful human being into someone cold and callous, someone who is afraid to be who they are in front of others." Bates took slow sips, trying to let his brain wrap around it. "I was terrible to him in the hospital, even though I knew he was lashing out because he was hurt. But I couldn't understand why he didn't want our help. But then I realize he must have thought everyone was required to go see him, as if it were made to think it like we cared—" He drifted off. "I wonder what it must feel to think you're alone."

"It is probably a very, very sad place." Branson closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the way Thomas pushed Callum away that day. If there was anyone who knew how to help…

"So what do we do about this?" Bates asked after a moment of silence. "How do we go about this healing process? Because we can't let him do it alone."

"I've got an idea." Branson nodded, looking at his empty glass, hoping that it was a _good_ idea. Asking Callum to come would either set Thomas back or help him move forward. He prayed it would be the latter of the two, for Barrow's sake. He thought about talking to Robert, wondering what he would say, perhaps letting Thomas take a vacation of sorts—far away, perhaps in a place where _it_ was not illegal. Sybil wouldn't forgive him if he didn't try, and try he would.

He would try so very hard.

* * *

Edward sat across the table from him, wrists sliced open, but no blood coming from them. Thomas was trying to concentrate on a book, having been given some time to relax with the upstairs women out for tea at Mrs. Crawley's. He glanced up every so often, watching those lifeless eyes stare at him, before finally—

"What?"

He knew he was alone, but how long would it be before someone came in and saw Edward?

"_So you believe her?"_

Thomas chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on the words on the page but failing miserably as the ache in his head worsened. "Yes. I do, actually."

"_You're sure?"_ Edward watched him with concern. Thomas exhaled a deep, deep breath, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly.

"Yes," He said, a little more uncertain this time. The former lieutenant picked up on that and leaned forward.

"_They don't know you like I do, Thomas." _He spoke carefully, as if calculating his response, _"They don't know that pain inside of you. They haven't cared before. Why would they start now?" _

The under-butler closed his eyes, squeezing the book tightly, his body tensing. "Because I mean something here now."

Edward gave him a look that said _do you really?_

Thomas dropped the book and shakily lit a cigarette, looking away from Edward, trying to control his emotions. He recalled this morning and that desperate need to end it all and just accept peace. Would it be salvation?

"_There's a world." _Edward spoke softly, reaching over the table, gently taking Thomas' hand in his, brushing his thumb against his knuckles, _"There's a world, I know. A place we can go where the pain will go away." _He lifted the hand to his lips and kissed it. "_There's a world where the sun shines each day." _

It was Carson who stood in the doorway, who watched silently as Thomas sat transfixed with a blank gaze as he stared at the chair across from him. He watched the tears form in the younger man's eyes and slowly trickle down. A twang of guilt twisted in his chest, and he grabbed onto the doorframe, afraid to pull the under-butler out of his trance, unsure of how he would react.

"_In time, Thomas, I know you'll see… There's a world where we can be free."_ Edward lowered his hand back to the table, taking note of the new arrival. _"Come with me._"

He was gone. Thomas felt empty without him sitting there. His lips twitched, and then he came back to life, rubbing the tears out of his eyes, cursing himself for being so weak in an open area where anyone could—

"Mr. Barrow?"

Out of anyone in the world that he could deal with seeing him like this, Charles Carson was the very _last_ person on that list. Thomas slammed his hands against the table, sitting attentively before hurrying into a standing position, cigarette still dangling in between his lips. "Mr. Carson," He spoke breathlessly, feeling as though he'd been running this whole time with his nerves and the way his heart beat rapidly in his chest. "I can explain. I was just taking a break before tea—"

"Come to my office, Thomas." Carson said uncharacteristically soft, as if he were speaking to Lady Mary and not the under-butler, who was once a footman who gave him a ridiculously hard time.

Well, that's it. He knew he was going to be fired. Too emotional on the job, shirking duties to take a breather. He should have realized Carson wouldn't put up with his bullshit. Thomas followed him silently, head slightly bowed. He felt a hand on the small of his back, _"I told you._" Edward whispered in his ear. Thomas turned to him, a desperate look on his face, but once again he was gone. So he was to be abandoned in the very end. How so very fitting for him.

Carson shut the door when he walked in and leaned against it, holding out his hand for Thomas to sit. He watched the under-butler shakily get down into the chair, watching that pale face and scared eyes. It was as if he was telling Thomas he'd lost his job all over again. The older man approached his chair and sat, clasping his hands together, recalling both Mr. Bates' and Mrs. Hughes' words. He was beginning to learn just how out of control Thomas was of this situation, how he couldn't just pull himself together. He'd been talking to no one just now but had been speaking as if someone was there. And honestly, Carson was worried.

"Mr. Carson," Thomas began, staring at the desk, anywhere but his superior. "Please, I can do better—" He stopped, trying to find the words. "I can get over this. I promise." He was trying to keep his composure just as he had years ago when the butler told him he wouldn't have a reference. "I know my dramatics have been bringing gossip to the table, and I know I can put myself back to normal, and—oh_ please _don't give me my marching papers just yet. Please give me another chance. I know you've been giving me a lot of those in the recent years, and I appreciate it." He was playing with his gloved hand, pressing his thumb against where the scar was, where the nails had entered his skin.

The bushy-browed man sat flabbergast at how desperate Thomas was to keep his job, at how devastated he was that he thought he would be fired. Carson rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Are you quite finished?" He asked, making sure to keep that calm tone. "Because that is not why I called you in here, Mr. Barrow. I wanted to see how you were feeling. I realize I have not taken an active interest throughout your healing process, but I wanted you to know that I _do_ realize that you are unwell. And I hope for a full recovery."

He knew it was incredibly rude to stare at Carson with his mouth hanging open in shock, but Thomas could neither control his face nor his emotions at the older man's words. He didn't care if someone forced him to tell him or if his gesture was genuine. For the butler to show him some ounce of compassion always meant something to Thomas, because as much as he hated to admit it, Carson was like a father figure to him. (He recalled spying in on that lesson with him and Alfred and feeling a surge of jealousy.) He lowered his gaze, shaking in his chair, trying to process those words.

"_He's only saying that. You know he hates you. Always has, always will. It's all a show, a false sense of security before he throws you out on the streets. You can't let him fool you. You can't let him hurt you."_

"Yes, a full recovery there shall be." Thomas said hollowly, staring at a scuff on his left shoe. "If that will be all, Mr. Carson?" He didn't dare look back up.

The aging butler felt rather powerless in this situation, eying as the other retreated into himself with his words of (somewhat) sincerity. So everyone had been right all along. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Yes." He said dejectedly and watched Thomas leave. So there was nothing he could do, then.

* * *

Mrs. Patmore watched as Daisy half-heartedly cut up the vegetables for dinner. She frowned at her assistant cook, having a hunch on what was on her mind. Beryl was a wise woman, and she knew everything from Mrs. Hughes, though she hadn't tried to make Thomas feel uncomfortable in the slightest. In fact, if it was anyone the under-butler spoke normally to, it was the ginger cook, and she was grateful for that. But she had seen how pale Daisy had been when she'd come back from wherever she disappeared to.

"Are you worried, then?" Mrs. Patmore said lowly, moving toward her young protégé.

"You should have seen 'im, Mrs. Patmore. I think I helped him, I truly do, but…" She stopped chopping, putting down the knife. "He said he's stuck in a dark hole and that he can't see the light. How—how can you stop that?" She turned to the older, tears brimming her eyes. "How can you really help? I—I just wish Thomas could be _Thomas_ again."

"I know. And what you've done has probably helped him lots, Daisy, I'm sure."

"I don't know, Mrs. Patmore," said Alfred from the doorway, "He's been awfully nasty today ever since his outburst. Nearly ripped off me and Jimmy's heads before." He frowned, crossing his arms. "M'actually scared of him."

"Now, now. Don't go talking like that." Mrs. Patmore turned to him, scowling. "Mr. Barrow still deserves respect from you, Alfred. Even if he's in a mood or not, he's still your superior."

"S'like he's a completely different person every bloody hour, Mrs. Patmore. We don't know how to deal with that. Why don't he just go away for a while?"

Thomas paused in the hallway from his trek downstairs, staring at Alfred's back.

"I mean, it'll do 'im some good, yeah? Maybe he shouldn't even stay here. S'probably better off for him. And it'll be better for all o'us."

Thomas took a step back and another and another, before his back pressed against the door. He was out of the house in a flash, the cold air of winter surrounding him. It was welcome, however, against his hot face. He trudged away from Downton, his worst fears realized. He had been so stupid to believe Daisy. There they were, talking about how they wanted him to leave behind his back the minute they thought he wasn't around. He stopped walking for a moment and threw his head up to the sky, letting out a desperate and pitiful laugh.

Edward stood next to him, grabbing his elbow. _"We should go. They won't come looking. You can start over."_

"Where am I going to go from here?" Thomas said, turning to him, yanking his arm away. "I know I'm not wanted—knew it from the fucking start, Edward—but there's no where to go. Not from here, not like this." He took a few steps away, rubbing his hands over his face, beginning to shiver from the exposure to the cold.

"_You can't stay here. You should have listened." _

"I know. I am listening. I've been listening. I just—I need time still. I'm not as brave as you were," He turned back to Edward, tears in his widened eyes. "I can't just…" He rubbed his wrists, thinking about it. "I wanted to after Carson's crap, but I need to find the right time. I can't risk being found."

"_You'll be so much happier away from here, Thomas. I hate to see you so miserable."_ Edward approached him, cupping his cheeks like Daisy had done earlier. Like Gwen had done, and Callum. _"You deserve to be happy."_

"I deserve to be horsewhipped."

Edward moved his hand down to Thomas' neck. _"No. You're perfect."_

"Far from it. So far from it…" Thomas whispered, closing his eyes, feeling the other's lips brush against his.

And then the feeling was gone. He wrapped his arms around himself and shook in the cold, teeth chattering. He didn't want to go back inside, not just yet. Not until he had himself composed enough to give Alfred extra chores that night…

* * *

"Has anyone seen Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy asked as he poked his head into the kitchen. "We're supposed to be getting ready for dinner, and he's just off and poofed—" He grimaced at his choice of words. But truth be told, he was trying to corner Thomas to talk to him all day. The under-butler wouldn't have it, finding some unimportant nonsense to keep him occupied otherwise. It worried him, especially after the way Thomas acted to his profession of love.

Mrs. Patmore shook her head. "No, I haven't seen him. Perhaps, Alfred?"

"I know he was upstairs earlier, clearing the tea cups from the rooms." The second footman shrugged. "Haven't seen him since."

Daisy met Jimmy's gaze, having an awful feeling in the pit of her stomach. When the blond saw the fright in her eyes, he left the room to go run upstairs. "Mr. Barrow?" He asked, slamming his fist against the man's door. With no response, he opened it, feeling even more nervous at the fact that he _wasn't_ in there. Where could the older man have gone? Certainly he could be anywhere in the house, but it felt odd that he should go missing just before dinner. He hurried back down the stairs, ignoring Carson's call for him as he slammed open the back door and rushed outside. "Mr. Barrow!? Thomas—_Thomas,_ where are you?"

He stopped when he saw a figure sitting on the floor in a near fetal position, pressing his back against the brick wall of the kitchen yard storage shed. Thomas was hugging his knees, quivering in the cold. How long had he been out there? He didn't make any sudden movements, instead slowly kneeling down next to him, not caring if his pants were ruined—he could bloody change them. Carefully, he reached out a hand to touch the man's shoulder and cringed when he jerked away. "Mr. Barrow, what are you doing out here?"

"W-W-What d-do y-you c-c-c-a—" He couldn't even say the last fucking word, _damn it._ Thomas glared at him, teeth chattering. "D-D-Don't-t-t y-you w-w-want m-me t-t-to go-go, t-t-t-too?"

Jimmy could see the tear streaks down his cheeks and reached out to brush a new tear away. "I told you how I bloody feel, you loon." He said softly, leaning closer, feeling his heart flutter when Thomas leaned into the touch; the other man felt as cold as ice. "What happened, Mr. Barrow? Why are you sitting out here?"

"H-Heard-d th-the l-lot t-talk-king ab-bout w-wanting m-m-me t-t-to g-g-go." Thomas hated that he was being so vulnerable again in front of this man, but he couldn't help himself. Jimmy's hand felt so warm and lovely, and he almost felt comforted in the fact that the younger man had gone out to search for him. Though, he saw Edward standing behind the first footman with a grave look on his face and moved away, huddling back into the darkness. "J-Just g-g-go—"

"Are you out of your bleedin' mind?" Jimmy asked, lowering his hand as Thomas cowered away, a deep frown on his face. "I'm not leavin' you out here. C'mon, we're getting you inside." He grabbed the older man and tugged him up, surprised at just how easily the other grabbed onto him. "You probably misheard them, Mr. Barrow. We very much want you to stay." He tried to soothe him with his words as he helped the other man along, feeling the other trembling against his side. "What would we do without you?"

Thomas didn't answer. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy saw a blank expression on the under-butler's face. He quickened his pace and got him inside in no time, ignoring anyone who might see them trudge up the stairs. He had the under-butler in his room in no time. "Come on, let's get you under the covers, Thomas. Give me your jacket." He slid it off like a proper valet would and gently pushed Thomas to the bed.

The ebony-haired man stood there for a while, silent. He turned back to Jimmy, pale as the moon itself. "You r-really w-want me?" He asked lowly. "St-still?"

"How bloody daft can you be, love?" Jimmy smiled hesitantly and took a step forward, pressing his chest against the older's. "You don't just stop loving people so quickly, Thomas. I think you know that quite well." He put his hands on the man's hips before pulling him into a hug, rubbing the small of his back, trying to warm him up. "Rest. I'll tell everyone that you're not feeling well. Please?" He pulled away only slightly to see the confused look in Thomas' eyes. But the older man slowly nodded. "I'll come back with dinner for you later, and I'll stay. Maybe we can play a round or something."

"I-I'd like that," He said weakly, suddenly hugging Jimmy back very tightly. "V-very m-much." He already felt warmer holding onto this man, this man that _did_ care. He had to, right? Maybe Edward was wrong. Certainly he had to be, because Jimmy was here and wanted to help. Not everyone could have wanted him gone. He buried his face into Jimmy's shoulder, hiding his face into the crook of the man's neck, shivering still.

Jimmy inhaled a deep, deep breath and drew small circles into the vulnerable man's back, trying to soothe him. Carson would no doubt be ringing the gong soon, and as much as he didn't want to leave Thomas, he head to. He dared to press a kiss into his ebony hair and then slowly pulled away. "Now into bed with you, Mr. Barrow." He looked into those tired crystalline hues and felt regret. He helped Thomas into bed and tucked him in; both men didn't care if he was still in uniform or not, though Jimmy took off his stiff collar and bowtie and then brushed his fingers through the older man's hair. He smiled weakly. "I'll be back. I promise."

The door shut quietly as Jimmy exited. Thomas hugged his blanket close, still cold from being outside. He squeezed his eyes shut, but soon he was arching his back at the feeling of a hand on his neck. "Please, Edward, not now." He begged lowly.

"_I don't want you to be fooled by him."_

"But he's shown m-me how much he c-cares." He hid his face in the blanket. Thomas didn't want to do this. Not right now. He exhaled a slow breath. "I _really_ want to believe him, Edward."

He felt the weight shift on the bed and an arm drape around him. _"I know you do, and what he says is so promising, isn't it? But what if this is a trick to get you fired? He's done it in the past." _

"That was O'Brien's doing." Thomas still leaned back into Edward's touch. "He didn't want it to go that far. He told me so."

"_Are you sure? Can you ever be sure with him?"_

Thomas hugged the sheets close and squeezed his eyes shut, tuning out Edward. He didn't need this right now. He wanted to think good of Jimmy, because Jimmy would never hurt him…. _But Jimmy has hurt you_. He ground his teeth together and shook his head. Not tonight. He'd been through enough tonight. He just wanted a peaceful sleep!

"_There's a world…"_

Thomas opened his eyes and stared at the wall miserably.

* * *

When Jimmy came back with the tray, hours later, he found Thomas asleep in his bed. He sighed, placing the tray on the small cabinet next to it, and watched the older man's eyes furrow as he slept. He gently reached down and carded his fingers through his hair and placed a kiss against his head. "Tomorrow will be better. I promise." He said softly, knowing the other couldn't hear him.

He left the room soon after, closing it behind him. Rubbing his hands over his face, he wondered who the culprits were for speaking in such away about this wounded man. Jimmy stormed down to the servants' hall, where the lot was lounging after dinner. "So, which one of you done it?"

Ivy looked up from reading the paper with Alfred. "Done what?"

"Spoke about wanting Mr. Barrow to leave."

Alfred ducked his head into the paper, nearly cursing under his breath. Jimmy caught on quickly and marched up to his fellow footman, eyes narrowing at the back of his head. "Why did you say those things?"

"I just – I was just talkin', Jimmy." Alfred turned to him, staring up at him with a fearful look in his eyes. "I didn't mean it like tha'. I just thought—"

"No. You_ weren't _thinking." His voice was suddenly raised. "Do you know he heard you and that's why he ran off? He heard you say you didn't want him around! Were you not _listening_ to Mr. Bates? You can't – you can't just say something so stupid, Alfred! He's – he's hurting so much, and he thinks that. He really thinks that. You saying it for _whatever_ reason only confirms it. So congratulations. You nearly got your wish."

"What do you mean?" Alfred asked, eyes widened.

"He damned near tried to freeze himself to death. That's why he'd taken ill. That's why he disappeared before dinner. I hope you're happy." Jimmy could feel the tears in his eyes. God, he couldn't imagine what it must feel like, but it hurt him just as much to know that Thomas was hurting so badly.

"Christ," the beanpole said, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "I only meant it like a vacation, Jimmy. Promise. He must've misheard me."

"I don't care. If I hear you talking about it again, I'll sock you. No. I'll do worse than that. Just please—we have to be so careful around him." Jimmy sniffled, unable to control himself.

"That's why he should go away! So he can get the help he needs. What good are we doing for him here, truly?" Alfred met his gaze.

Jimmy didn't have an answer, but he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if they sent Thomas away, even if it was for his own benefit. He had the most awful feeling if they did. He rubbed his hands over his face, sighing heavily once again, trying to control himself.

"Why do you care so much anyway?" Ivy asked, "S'not like you two were that close, were you?"

"Oh _shove it_, Ivy." Jimmy bit back angrily before storming out of the room.

_I care about him so much. I want him to let me in. God, please, Thomas. Please let me in._

* * *

It was a complete surprise to Tom Branson when Callum Tyler appeared at Downton the next morning. He stood outside along with Robert, eyes slightly widened at his sudden appearance. He'd only called and left a message with his secretary yesterday. He blinked several times, wondering if this was a dream, and then he realized that Thomas wasn't standing outside with them.

Oh, right. The man has apparently taken ill last night. He hadn't heard particulars, but it did make him worry even more. What if he'd done something? Or what if he was just—

Callum approached him with his slight limp and shook his hand. "Mr. Branson." He kept his grip and leaned in to whisper, "Is there anywhere we can speak privately? I am here for business with Lord Grantham, but I also have some inquiries to make about that message you left with my secretary."

The Irishman nodded before Robert clasped his hand on Callum's shoulder and led him inside. Branson stood there silently and brushed his fingers through his hair. He hoped Thomas was unwell enough to not get up today, because he suddenly regretted this decision—at least he would until he spoke to the other man. He glanced to Carson, who gave him a funny look, waiting for him to go back inside.

"Mr. Carson," He suddenly asked, "How is Mr. Barrow doing? I'm surprised to not see him."

"He took ill last night before dinner," Carson responded gruffly, remembering his conversation with Thomas the day before and how 'well' it had gone. "I am unsure of his status this morning, but he did not get up for breakfast."

"See to it that he gets the care he needs." Branson said with a nod. "And do let me know as soon as possible if he does feel better. Mr. Tyler is an old friend of his, and I would hate for him to miss out on an opportunity to see him."

Carson raised a skeptical brow but nodded and entered the building after him.

After about an hour of talking with Lord Grantham, Branson managed to snag Tyler for a walk in the gardens before luncheon. They walked quietly at first, taking in each other's presence. The last time either of them had seen each other was when Thomas told the other one to leave.

_We are disgusting. We are sinners who will rot in hell. I only got what I deserved._

Callum inhaled a deep breath. "So how has dear Mr. Barrow been fairing?" He held the breath for a moment, hoping to hear good news, but he feared the worst. Truth be told, he had not stopped thinking about the man since then, even if it was months later. He exhaled it slowly, eyes on Branson.

"Not very well. Not very well at all, Mr. Tyler. We thought he might have been all right at first, but it's all been a downward spiral. He's tried to deny it by trying to get with a woman, and now he's made himself sick over it. It's come out with a vengeance, so I'm told." His voice lowered, "I must admit, I was not keeping as close an eye as I should've. He's been suffering in silence upstairs. You wouldn't think anything's wrong while he's doing his job. Downstairs is another story entirely." Tom pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking of Bates, of Thomas, or how much he still wanted to rip that damn Hayden to pieces.

"I see," Callum stopped walking, closing his eyes, feeling the utmost regret. "I shouldn't have left him then—"

"No, Mr. Tyler—"

"I should have stayed with him." Callum opened his eyes, tears glistening in them. "I sent him a letter after it, but he never responded. I left him a telegram, letting him know that I was coming. You see, Lord Grantham and I had already set up this appointment, and I wanted to see Thomas, to see how he was doing. I was telling myself he didn't respond because he was feeling fine. I was lying to myself, because I didn't want to face to truth, to think of the worst, of how he could be crying at night, hating the very skin he lived in. I must say, I even hated myself for what I was—for what I am. How can you not, when everyone else seems to?"

He let the question hang in the air, because Branson was certainly at a loss for words.

"I must see him." Callum said. "Whatever the cost. Let me go to his room."

"I'm not sure that's the best thing right now." Branson tugged on his collar.

"Then why did you ask me here, Mr. Branson, if not to see him?" The ex-solider stared at him with a hardened gaze.

Tom then nodded and swallowed, looking up to where the servants' quarters were located. He brought him inside through the back entrance, rubbing his arms to get rid of the chill from the cold. He told Callum to wait in the hallway while he went into Carson's pantry. He was surprised to say the least when he found Thomas in there instead of Carson, hunched over the desk, doing some paperwork. He opened his mouth and then closed it, recovering as the other looked up at him.

"Mr. Barrow, you're feeling better, I presume?"

"Yes," Thomas said with almost a sneer. "Were you looking for Mr. Carson?"

"I – _no_, actually. I was looking for you." Why did he pick now to feel nervous? Branson swallowed. "There's someone here who wants to see you."

The under-butler raised a brow at him. "Oh? Well, then. Send them in. We can speak here privately."

Branson thought something along the lines of 'I don't think you want to do that here, but all right,' before saying, "Right." He left abruptly, leaving Thomas in the dark on who was coming to visit him.

When Callum Tyler walked into the room, though, Thomas Barrow felt his chest tighten. He suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe, like he was dying. He jumped into a standing position, stumbling back until his back pressed against a wall.

"_I think we should call it a night, don't you? Good night, Mr. Tyler."_

"_Come over tomorrow night? Please. I don't want to leave on this terrible note, and I'm afraid I must get back to London the day after tomorrow."_

His heart was racing.

_"I was just some lay to you. It's fine. You had no obligation."_

"… _what did he do to you?"_

"Now, Thomas, I know—" Callum had started, but Thomas beat him to it.

"What are you doing here!?" He almost shouted, feeling the room suddenly become very small. There was no escape from this. _Callum. _Callum was the reason for his misfortune. If Callum hadn't seduced him, he would have never gotten caught. He would have never been hurt in an unimaginable way. He never would have been beaten and maimed and –

"I told you I was coming." The older man said solemnly. "You knew I was coming, Thomas. Don't pretend that you didn't."

But no. No, he hadn't known. Surely, he hadn't—so he really _had_ received that telegram! It wasn't a dream? But it had felt like a dream, because Edward and… No. Not a dream, because Edward was around now, and Rhys Hayden would always be there, _haunting _him. Thomas opened his mouth, trying to find the right words to say, trying to find anything to say, but he couldn't speak anymore. His mind was failing him, leaving him to crippling thoughts. "I—I—_I—"_

"Thomas, darling…" Callum said, slowly making his way over to him, keeping the desk between them for now. "Please talk to me. You're hurting so terribly, and no one knows. No one understands. I know that. I know that so very much."

"This is all _your_ fault!" Thomas growled, suddenly finding a confidence he hadn't felt in months as he slammed his hands on the table. "If you—if you had been more careful, if you hadn't been so hell-bent on making out in the damn alleyway! You knew we were in public—"

Callum wasn't having that one bit, even though he knew Thomas was lashing out on him because he was hurting. "It takes two to foxtrot, Thomas."

Thomas was silent again. He fell into the chair, staring at his hands. He had begun to wear the white glove on his left hand again, having regained full mobility after all. His body had healed from the experience, but his mind had not. He was still so lost, so very lost, trying to climb his way back up. This was so unlike him, but he didn't know how to deal with this. He rubbed his hands over his face and then flattened out his hair, his elbows resting against the desk. He shook in his seat and took in a deep breath. As anxious as he was to have Callum there, he oddly felt it easier to talk to him. That maybe he _would_ understand…

"Everywhere I turn, he's there. I know he's not there, but he's here in my mind. I can feel his whispers in my ear. I can see him watching, waiting for another moment to strike. I can remember everything vividly—I can't—I can't sleep. I tried so hard to change, to fake the other life, to _try_ and be normal for fucking once. I thought I was happy. I wanted to be happy."

Callum frowned deeply and moved closer still, around the desk, resting against it next to the under-butler. "I know. But _we_ were happy, Thomas, before that monster attacked you. There was nothing we could do to change that. It's happened." He reached forward, taking Thomas' gloved hand gently, and rubbed small soothing circles into it. "The question now is how do you move on? I came to offer you a proposition."

The ebony haired man looked up at him, eyes bloodshot, face drawn. "And what would that be?"

"Come back to London with me." Callum said, bringing the other's hand to his lips, kissing it softly on the palm. "Come to London with me and be my assistant. I can teach you what to do, and London is much more liberal these days."

And for just a moment, Thomas let himself believe that was a good idea.

Edward stood in the doorway, glancing at him over Callum's shoulder. He only saw him out of his peripherals, but he could see the other shake his head.

_Whisk you to London and then leave you alone? Does he really know your pain? Does he really offer you salvation? _

Thomas' mouth hung open ever so slightly as he hesitated in answer, and then he looked up at Callum, seeing the truth written all over his aging features. The other had been so kind to him before, had called him beautiful and held him, and it had been the first time in a long while that he hadn't woken up alone. That he had left in the morning after their night. They had only been allowed one, but it had been so different, what he had needed, why he had been given the off time in the first place. And yet, this was the man who had brought him to anguish, because Thomas had been so blind, so focused on the other man instead of being careful. That was why he had been kidnapped and tortured, because he couldn't keep it in his pants in public. Callum made him only think about the incident, as unfortunate as that was, because in all honesty…

Thomas wanted him. He wasn't like Jimmy; he hadn't been scared. He saw what he wanted and took it. He made Thomas feel loved, if only for a moment. Unlike Jimmy, who had—

…who had held him whenever he was feeling particularly down. Who had taken him in from outside when he was freezing cold, giving him a reason to live, making Edward go away for a while. Jimmy had been nothing but an angel to him since the attack, but he had also been a great friend _before_ that.

His mind was torn in two. Thomas pulled his hand away from Callum's grip and exhaled a deep, deep sigh. He hadn't thought this rationally in ages. "I don't—"

"Thomas." The older man interrupted. "Please don't push me away again." He said, taking him by the chin, looking into his eyes, seeing the despair—but there was a little bit of hope in them. "If we are to be sinners, let us be happy sinners together." He brushed his thumb along the other's jaw, leaning closely.

And Thomas let himself be wooed, because he had been so tired. He was so tired. Last night had left him in shambles, and if no one wanted him here, then…

"Callum," He spoke softly, the name almost foreign to him as much as that tone of his own voice. He leaned into the touch. He was so tired. He placed his hand against the older man's, closing his eyes, and a pained expression flashed on his face.

_What would we do without you?_ Jimmy had said the night before. But they would be fine without him. Carson had been fine without him while he was in the hospital. Surely, they would be _fine_ without him. They didn't need an under-butler. He was a glorified footman who didn't have to serve dinner.

_What if he set you up? What if he brought your hopes up? What if he and Hayden are working together, trying to make you suffer? You can't believe him, Thomas. This is too good to be true._

Edward's lips tickled his ear. This _was_ too good to be true. Thomas opened his eyes and glanced up at the man who looked upon him with genuine concern in his eyes. No, Edward had to be wrong. Certainly—

_Look at how good he is at acting, Thomas._ _So confident that you'll run away with him._

Callum was very confident. Thomas' grip tightened on his hand, and he pulled it away from his face. "No." He said, letting go. "Get out."

Tyler stared at him, eyes slightly widened. Thomas' mood had changed in an instant. This was much worse than he'd thought. "Thomas, my d—"

"Get out!" He shouted, his voice cracking. The whole servants' hall probably heard him. "I want nothing to do with you!"

And so Callum ran out of the room as a bottle of wine followed him, smashing against the wall of the hallway. Everyone turned to see the man startled out of his wits. Branson's mouth was agape. So his plan had failed after all. He turned to Callum, who said nothing and stormed past him, leaving out the back wall.

Carson stormed down the hall, "What was that!?" And he saw the broken bottle and awed Branson. His eyes narrowed as he turned to look inside of his pantry, only to see Thomas curled up in a corner, hugging his knees.

This was becoming too much.

* * *

"He can't stay here." Carson said to Mrs. Hughes and Lord Grantham.

The housekeeper had a stern gaze upon her face at Carson's statement. Her fist clutched tightly at her side, but she held her tongue, waiting for his explanation. Lord Grantham, on the other hand, who had been more or less oblivious to the situation, stood with eyes widened at his butler's demand.

"And why is that, Carson?" He asked, sitting in the chair in the library. "What has Mr. Barrow done?"

"Everything." Carson spat. "I have even tried to reach out to him, and in the wake of that he has already shirked his responsibilities and ruined a bottle of your best wine."

"He took ill last night," Mrs. Hughes retorted, "I saw him as James brought him upstairs. He was white as a sheet, and he looked like he had caught his death, Mr. Carson."

"He has been nothing but a headache. This has been affecting his work too much. My lord," The butler turned to his employer, "I'm sorry, but Barrow has to go. We have put up with his shenanigans for a half-year. We have given him time to heal. Downton is no longer a good place for him to be. It is obvious he will not recover from the events of his tragic accident."

"So you just want to throw him into the streets." Mrs. Hughes was livid. "Have you not heeded anything we've all been saying?"

"I _have, _Mrs. Hughes. And I have watched him. And we have all tried, and his behavior is affecting us all. Too many people have had to come to his aid. We are trying to run a house with two children running around it. We cannot have an ill-tempered, unstable man working downstairs!"

Lord Grantham just seemed to be listening, staring at the floor as the two argued. He ran a hand over his face, wondering where he'd gone wrong. Once again, he hadn't been paying attention to the needs of one of his own. He liked to think he was a good employer, and yet he had forced Barrow into work when he knew the lad probably couldn't handle it, and he then had ignored his silent pleas for help. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he exhaled a regretful sigh.

"He needs a doctor," Carson continued, "Someone who can deal with his erratic demeanor. He should not be working in an environment that is holding him back. Everyone has said it. This is not a good place for him. We are obviously not helping, and that will not change in spite of all we have done to accommodate him. I will not stand and watch him continue to make a fool of himself."

"But if we make him leave, what will become of him then?" Mrs. Hughes asked, hearing Bates' words echoing in her head. Thomas thought they all wanted him to go, and this was just that. Carson _did _want him to leave. If the boy felt that useless, they may never hear from him again. But that was the point, wasn't it? To push him away, to keep him away from the family, to avoid scandal. Carson was only looking out for the house and its reputation. He didn't care about what happened to the under-butler.

"He will figure out something if we point him in the right direction." Carson responded, standing tall.

"Carson's right, I'm afraid."

Mrs. Hughes could have gotten whiplash from how quickly she turned to Lord Grantham. "My lord?"

"Barrow needs help." Robert said ruefully. "We cannot give him that here. So he must go. But I will make sure to send him to the right people, and perhaps one day he can return, perfectly healthy. I would not throw him out onto the streets, Mrs. Hughes." He inclined his head toward the housekeeper. "But I will make some inquiries with Doctor Clarkson about some medical facilities that can aid in his recovery. This is a very precarious situation, and I commend you both for dealing with it for so long."

She was speechless. Thomas would not take kindly to those words, not at all. She worried very much his reaction, considering the mindset he had been these past few days. It was written all over his features; he was going to break. This was going to be the thing that pushed him over the edge. She couldn't let that happen. "But, my Lord—" Elsie tried.

"That is my decision, Mrs. Hughes." The Earl said with finality. He then turned to Mr. Carson, "Relieve him of his duties, Carson. Tell him he no longer has to worry about his job, and that he will be taken care of." He paused, a sudden thought popping into his head. "No. Send him to me immediately, and I will talk to him." Perhaps that was for the better, given Carson's mood and beliefs about the situation.

"Of course, my lord."

"You two are dismissed." And as they left, Robert poured himself a well-needed glass of brandy.

"You don't know what you're doing to the poor man," Mrs. Hughes hissed to Carson on their way back downstairs. "You're going to—"

"He's going to get help, and that's settled." Carson eyed her wearily as they entered the servants' hall. Mr. Barrow was nowhere in sight. He sighed. "Can anyone tell me where Mr. Barrow has gone off to?"

Jimmy was alert at that statement, turning to them. "Why?"

"His lordship wishes to speak with him." Carson spat, not that there was any reason to tell him anyway, because it was none of his business. "Where is he?"

"He's still in your office, sir." Alfred chimed up, hesitantly looking over to Jimmy, who gave him the evil eye.

When Mr. Carson left, the blond footman turned to Mrs. Hughes, eyes widened. "What's going on, then?" He was worried down to his core, fearing the worst had just happened. His instincts were telling him so, and he was so very afraid for Thomas at this moment in time.

She sat in her respective seat and stared down at the curious glances thrown in her direction. "I'm afraid Mr. Barrow will no longer be employed at Downton."

"What?" Bates asked—

But before any of them could comment on the matter further, the door to Carson's pantry opened. They remained silent as they heard the footsteps walk across the hall and then up the stairs. A very eerie air filled the room. When the sound had disappeared, Jimmy spoke up.

"No. No, that can't be. He's—"

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about it. I tried, James." She met his eyes, wondering where this selflessness had been two years ago when _he_ nearly threw Mr. Barrow into the streets. "But Lord Grantham is going to make sure he gets the proper help."

"You're going to kill him with this news," Bates spoke up. "You're going to absolutely kill him."

"Perhaps this _is_ what Mr. Barrow needs, Mr. Bates," She snapped, but then she gently covered her face with her hands for a brief moment to collect herself. "This is what Lord Grantham decided would be best."

"_I _will have no more talk about Mr. Barrow in my servants' hall." Carson said from the doorway. "You will all wish him well and let him go. This is what is best for everyone. You may not see it my way now, but I assure you, I have all of our best wishes at heart."

Jimmy wanted to speak up, to speak out against him and fight for Thomas' case, but Bates caught his eyes and shook his head. This was a battle that had been lost.

* * *

Jimmy could clearly remember that despondent look on the under-butler's face when he had still been a valet two years ago. They made him sit by the hallboys now that he was unemployed, just as they had when he was about to be kicked out without a reference. This time, circumstances were a little different, but if anything Thomas' face looked even more blank and forlorn. The blond couldn't tell what he was thinking, and it worried him that he was so quiet. He also wasn't eating, as was the evidence of his still full plate. Everyone took turns glancing at him to gauge his reaction.

But Thomas was far gone from that table. Edward had been right all along. They didn't want him. They never wanted him. He was useless and broken goods. Lord Grantham had promised he could come back when he felt better, but he knew the man was lying. He just wanted to get rid of the troublesome Barrow once and for all. His heart was racing in his chest, and he felt like he couldn't breathe—a similar feeling to his encounter with Callum Tyler, who was long gone now, his promise of London gone with him. He was alone. No one had spoken a word to him since he'd returned from his chat; he'd only gotten strange looks, and particularly gleeful ones from Mr. Carson.

_Thomas, I told you this would happen._ Edward spoke from behind him, but Thomas did not turn to see him. He did not move when the other draped his arms around him. _You should have run away. Now you have nowhere to go._

_I have Bombay,_ Thomas thought hopelessly to himself. His cousin was still there, still wrote to him and told him how wonderful it is and that he should visit when he had the chance. Well, now he had it. But it would cost money to go, and he didn't want to drag himself to another country. He was just so tired of it all. That was all he felt lately: tired.

_I know a better place than Bombay._ Edward whispered, nuzzling his nose against him. The others couldn't see, so he let it happen. He still didn't move, staring at his plate of whatever slop it was. He didn't care; he wasn't hungry. _That world I spoke of to you earlier. You'll enjoy it so much, Thomas. Come with me._

_Come with me._

Thomas stood abruptly from the table and didn't answer the questioning looks his way. He didn't even hear if anyone called after him. He just dragged his feet as he headed back to his room. Bates and Jimmy shared a look, but the valet beat him to it. He was up and following the former under-butler.

"Thomas," He called, reaching out to grab his arm before he reached the stairs. "Thomas, wait."

"What do _you_ want?" Barrow turned to him with an icy stare, a look very similar to the ones he had given Bates years ago. "Come to gloat? I'm finally gone. This time you won't have to worry about me coming back," He spoke lowly, not wanting the others to overhear him. "I'll be gone and out of your hair, and you'll be glad of it."

"No. I won't." Bates said this time. He watched Thomas' eyes widen slightly. "We have been at each other's throats for years," A fib, but he knew that's what Thomas thought of their relationship anyway, "and I would like you to know that I do wish you well. We want you to come back to us in one piece."

The younger man stared at him with such a strange look that Bates couldn't tell his emotions from it. Was he grateful that was said, or?

"It will be a pleasure," He said suddenly, voice strained, "to see you again, Mr. Bates." And with that, he ripped his arm away and continued up the stairs.

Bates watched him go.

* * *

Thomas sat against his door, pressing the weight of his back against it, listening to the sound of doors shutting as time passed and the night overcame Downton. He heard one door after another, and then there was silence. He would be dwelling around here for a few days before Grantham gave him news about what asylum he would be shipped off too—because that's where Thomas knew they were sending him, and he couldn't let that happen. He wasn't crazy. He just…

Edward sat across from him. His straight razor rested in between them.

He had no where else to go, and Edward had been so good about convincing him to go off into his little happy world, where the pain would go away and no one would _hate _him for falling in love with the wrong sex, where no one would chain him up and beat him and maim him for something he could never control. Where the sun would shine and he could be happy and finally could be at peace. He hadn't felt at piece for the last thirty-five years of his life. He wished he hadn't been born, because his mother had been a drunk and an unhappy bitch who treated him like filth, because his brothers and sisters were unkind to him because he got special treatment from their father who barely came home, because his father stopped loving him when he was caught snogging another boy. He was tired of fighting, tired of labeling himself as a survivor. Thomas knew he used to be able to adapt, to figure out ways out of tricky situations, but this was the second time he had drawn a blank.

But there was sweet salvation at the tip of his fingers, calling out to him like a sweet hymn of the angels above. They would welcome him with open arms, telling him that he was to be happy for the rest of eternity. Edward promised him the sweet ambrosia of heaven, the nectar of the Gods, a fruit so delicious that it would make his taste buds dance with excitement. He promised Thomas the breathtaking beauty of it all, an absolute paradise where he would never feel sad or tired or _disgusting_ ever again. He would become young again, young and beautiful, unscarred and not hardened by the world, and he would be everlastingly happy.

The only catch was that he had to rid himself of this world, first, and that was a task Thomas was not so sure he was brave enough for even now, even with his life thrown away. He closed his eyes, pressing his head back against the door, when he heard a soft padding of footsteps coming closer. And then there was a very faint knock upon his door before someone rattled the doorknob and tried to get in.

He laughed when the poor bastard couldn't. In fact, Thomas knew exactly who this was. Precious Jimmy was going to come in here and tell him that he was going to be fine, that they would fix this, that he would not have to go, and Thomas loved him for that—truly. But he knew when he was beaten. There was no trump card here, no phrase that would make anyone back off. He was well and truly beaten for the second time of his life, left to face men with white coats that would hide him away and probably do worse things to him than Rhys Hayden had.

"Thomas?" His voice was delicate. "Thomas, why can't I open the door?" He spoke right against the wood so that the other could hear him.

Thomas brushed his fingers through his hair. "I'm fine, Jimmy." He said, mustering up the courage to sound it. "I've been thinking," He trailed off momentarily. "Maybe this is the right thing for me. Maybe I've been lying to myself, saying I'm going to get better here. But I know I'm not. They're right to send me away. I'll be all right, I promise you." He almost believed himself.

Jimmy hesitated responding but soon said, "Are you sure? Let me come in. I want to see you."

"Go back to bed. You'll see me in the morning." He then added, "I promise."

That seemed to get him to budge. He could feel the other place his hand against the door, rest against it for a moment, and then sigh. "I'll see you in the morning." And then he waited for those footsteps to disappear, for that door to shut…

And then there was absolute silence. Thomas never felt more at ease in his life. It was funny how something as simple as that had given him the courage to go. Lovely Jimmy would probably miss him, but he couldn't stay, not anymore. He was not wanted here, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

"_Are you ready?"_ Edward asked, meeting his eyes. _"I'll be here with you. I won't leave."_

"Yes." Thomas said, glancing down at his weapon of choice. "It doesn't hurt?"

"_Only a little. Only a little bit. But then you'll feel sleepy, and you will go to sleep. And when you wake up, we will be in paradise, Thomas."_

That sounded so lovely. He needed that; he truly needed away from this hellish nightmare of reality. This was beyond reality. He stared at his bare wrists, only in his undershirt and pyjama trousers. Red was always such a lovely color on him. "I want to be comfortable when it happens." He said aloud, perhaps to just himself, because Edward only nodded.

He lifted the straight razor, eying it with a desperate hunger. The blade almost sparkled in this darkness, offering him something more than this world. He placed the blade down against his skin and only realized then that he was shaking. Edward reached out and placed an encouraging hand against his shoulder. He kissed Thomas' temple. _"It's okay."_

He dug the blade in and dragged it across, hissing. Instantly, he whimpered. It hurt much more than he thought it would, stinging as the blood began to trickle down his arm and onto the floor. "Edward—" He gasped out, staring at him with fright, tears in his eyes. "Edward, I—" Maybe this had been wrong. Maybe he didn't want to die, not yet—

"_I promise you, you will be fine." _Edward kissed him gently on the lips. Thomas used this distraction to switch hands and do the same to his other wrist. He then dropped the razor, biting his lower lip from crying out in pain. His arms shook badly, and he wondered how brave Edward must have been to do this alone. Thomas breathed heavily, catching his breath, watching as the blood dripped down. It was almost intoxicating to watch, and he couldn't look away.

But he didn't want to die on the floor. He wanted to be comfortable. He promised himself that he _would_ be comfortable. He'd always wanted to know what it was like to sit on one of their chairs, on their couches. His back was so stiff at times, and he wondered what it would be like to just relax back against a cushion. Slowly, he pulled himself up, making a mess of his shirt as he did so.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he opened his door and closed it behind him as he stepped out into the hall. Thomas paused, hoping not to hear anyone stir, and then made his way downstairs. He took his sweet time, admiring the architecture of the house in a way he had never done so before. He was beginning to feel this sensation of peace, of invincibility of a sort, as if nothing now could go wrong.

He didn't know his wandering would attract the attention of anyone, and he didn't care. In fact, he stood in the large hall by the door for a while, staring at it in the darkness, before nodding his head to an invisible footman. "Yes, yes. Do put that in the laundry room, Jeeves. I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention on the hunt and dirtied it up much more than I thought I would." He watched the footman disappear and smiled to himself.

Thomas Barrow was now the Earl of Downton, and no one could say differently.

He walked silently into the sitting room, eying the plush armchair in the back corner of it. He smoothly lowered himself into it and exhaled a sigh of relief. For years, he'd dreamed of what it felt like to be seated in the throne of aristocracy, and for his last moments on earth he would know.

_It's a dream, really,_ He thought to himself, resting his head back gazing at the dark ceiling. _It's as though I'm sitting on a cloud…_ Thomas' eyes fluttered closed. _Wish I had been bold enough to do this sooner… Oh, it's so very comfortable… _


	5. epilogue

_**Just give me a reason,  
**__**Just a little bit's enough  
**__**Just a second, we're not broken  
**__**Just bent and we can learn to love again.**_

The ambrosia didn't taste so sweet after all.

The service was small—only some members of the family (Edith, Tom, Cora, and Robert) and the servants, indoor and out, attended. Thomas didn't have family to their knowledge save his cousin in Bombay, but no one knew the address, so they assumed that they would realize that he was gone when the letters stopped coming. Anna had her arms wrapped around Daisy's shoulders as she cried into her chest. Bates sat silently next to them, a vice grip on his cane. Alfred even shed a few tears as he sat there in the chapel, never realizing he would feel so guilty about this. Ivy sat next to him, holding his hand under the pew so no one would see, rubbing her thumb along it in comfort.

Mrs. Hughes plotted her eyes several times as the priest spoke. She couldn't believe that Thomas was actually gone. Twelve years ago, she had thought he was a mischievously little thing, flaunting himself about and having a cockiness about him that needed to be brought down a couple of notches, but now… She hid her face into her handkerchief and let out a soft sob, mourning the loss of another young life. Downton had been facing too many of them over the last couple of years.

Beside her sat Carson. The portly man was sitting with a drawn expression, eyes locked on the coffin. _You've killed him._ He heard Bates' words in his mind and clenched a fist against his knee. He had intended for Barrow to get help; his presence was trying to everyone at Downton… But killing him? He never anticipated that. Perhaps he had not been as kind to Thomas as he should have been, but he didn't have time to worry about his mental health because he had a house to run and a mourning Lady Mary to tend to. Why did he feel so terribly sad about this? Because Thomas was like a son to him, in a way. The son he didn't necessarily like at first, but he'd grown attached to the man, having been around him for over ten years of his life. Thomas had proved himself to be a good worker, a good leader, in spite of previous incidents. And now he was gone. Just like that. Perhaps he should have felt differently because the man took his own life, like a coward, but he knew—like everyone else in the room—that it only had been a plea for help. He felt some stray tears trickling down his face. How would he able to live with himself after this?

Jimmy didn't show up. Everyone figured he was too distraught for words, considering he had been the chap who discovered Thomas that night. Jimmy had been in shock and had locked himself in his room since the incident, feeling that it was all his fault. Apparently, he had tried to talk to Thomas before it happened, and he had let the other push him away one last time. He couldn't live with himself after that. But in time, all wounds would heal. This too should pass, but no one would blame Jimmy if he decided to put in his notice.

Robert looked at Branson nervously as they left the church. They strolled behind the others on their way to their cemetery. "So you don't think they suspect anything, do you?" He asked in a hushed voice.

"No." Branson said, keeping his best poker face on—which wasn't particularly emotionless. He brushed some tears from his face. "It is an awful shame, however."

"He was so young," They heard Mrs. Hughes sob behind them.

Branson eyed Robert suspiciously before turning to Mrs. Hughes. The earl took a couple of steps back to meet her. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hughes. This was unforeseen."

"Unforeseen!?" Hughes spat back at him, and then she realized _whom _she was speaking to. She swallowed, wiping her tears again. "I'm sorry, my lord." Elsie sniffled, "We should have helped him. We shouldn't have pushed him away."

At that, Robert almost caved, but Branson gave him a look and a shake of his head. No. It would never be the right time for that. The older man nodded and glanced back down to her, rubbing his arm comfortingly on her shoulder. "Oh my dear Mrs. Hughes, I do regret my decision wholeheartedly. I was only trying to do what was right for both the house and for Barrow. But perhaps he is in a better place now." He glanced up at the clear blue sky, "One can only hope."

That seemed to mollify Mrs. Hughes enough to get her in motion toward the graveyard. Everyone watched in silence as they finished burying the casket, eying the tombstone solemnly:

_Thomas Duncan Barrow  
__Loyal Servant, Soldier, and Friend  
__1887-1922_

Daisy threw herself onto the dirt, grabbing the tombstone tightly. "Thomas, no, _please_—" She begged, pressing her forehead against it. She had wanted to help him get out of the hole. It wasn't like him to give up like this. Ivy and Alfred ran to her sides, grabbing her arms, pulling her away.

"He's _gone_, Daisy!" Alfred shouted, fighting against her. "You can't make 'im come back!"

"He can't be – he just can't, Alfred!" The young woman couldn't stop her hysterics. Out of the three of them who had all started around the same time, she was the only one left. William had been taken from her years ago, and now Thomas. All of them had never seen eye to eye, but they were all connected, having been the youngest servants at one point. Now she was ten years older and had lost them both. At the realization, she finally gave up fighting and hugged the ginger tightly. He dragged her away with Mrs. Patmore in tow, who was mourning in her own silent way.

Branson sucked in a deep breath and turned to Robert.

* * *

Jimmy sat in Thomas' old room. He could remember every time he was in here clearly, comforting Thomas, playing cards with him. He wiped away the tears as they fell down his cheeks, smiling ruefully to himself. He couldn't bring himself to attend the funeral, because he didn't want to remember Thomas like that. Instead, he wanted to remember Mr. Barrow when he was alive and healthy. He took a look around his room, glancing over various books, reading the names of poets such as Thomas Hardy, John Keats, and Lord Byron, and finding Thomas' Shakespeare collection. He didn't know the under-butler had been that avid of a reader. It made him seem like a romantic.

He glanced at the picture on the small drawer next to the bed. It looked like a picture of Barrow's parents: a gruff and yet gentle looking man with Thomas' facial structure and a very impatient woman who had Thomas' crystalline blue hues. He hummed in appreciation of how good looking his parents looked; they had created a lovely son after all. Jimmy silently wondered if he had any siblings. He had never talked about them; hell, hadn't talked about any family except the cousin in India and his clock-loving father.

Jimmy sighed heavily and closed his eyes, remembering the last words Thomas said before leaving him for good. Tears filled his eyes again, and he sniffled, pressing himself against the wall.

_Thank you, Jimmy, for makin' me world just a tad bit brighter._

He slammed his fist against the wall, damning it all. Jimmy had wanted to do so much more for him. But in the end, it had been enough.

"Thomas…" Jimmy rested his forehead against the wall, inhaling a deep breath. The room still smelled like the older man, like pomade and cigarettes and old books. "God, Thomas, please… I hope you're happy now." It hurt so much, more than he could even explain. Waking up hurt, going to bed hurt, because he knew he would never see those piercing, calculating glances, that smug smile and slicked back hair.

He would never hear his voice again, never hear another proclamation of love, and never be able to tell Thomas that he loved him back.

James grabbed his hair and pulled at it. They had made the right choice in the end, but it didn't make the pain lessen.

* * *

**_One Year Later_**

"James," Carson said as he looked over the post for the day. "You have a letter."

"How come he gets a letter?" Alfred asked, "No one ever rights 'im." He asserted, like it was some sort of crime that _he_ got a letter and Alfred didn't.

The blond shot him a dull look from across the table. Though, he never did get letters. Not frequently anyway, so this was quite a surprise to him. What was even more unnerving was how thick the envelope looked. Who had written him a novel? "Thank you, Mr. Carson." He said, taking it and pocketing it.

"What? Not going to read it, Jimmy? C'mon, let's see who it's from."

"That's none of your business, Alfred," Bates chimed up, wiping his mouth with his napkin. "If James wants to keep his mail secret, he's entitled."

The second footman huffed and tucked back into his porridge, mumbling under his breath.

"What was that, Alfred?" Carson said in a very snide tone, one that made everyone pause and look at him. It was voiced in a way that reminded them all of Mr. Barrow. He cleared his throat and glared at the young man.

"… Nothing, Mr. Carson." Alfred said, slightly stunned.

"I thought so."

Jimmy escaped upstairs not too long after breakfast and pulled out his monstrosity of a letter. He stared at the scrawl of his name in a familiar handwriting, but he couldn't quite place where he had seen it before. He opened the peculiar envelope and was surprised to see a hefty amount of notes crammed into it along with several pages of parchment. He placed the money aside and sifted through the papers before deciding to just read it instead of faffing around.

_Jimmy,_

_This may come as a surprise to you, but I wanted to write to you. I've been wanting to write to you for months now, but I never could quite figure out the right words to say. I decided this time that it didn't hurt to try._

_First of all, I'm sorry. I'm so __so__ terribly sorry._

_I can only imagine what it must have been like on that night, to discover such a horrid sight. And yet, you managed to find the courage to take control of the situation. Honestly, I don't know how managed to keep yourself so composed throughout the entirety of that dreadful episode. All of those months, you still proved to be the perfect person, being so kind and comforting._

_Even as I was bleeding on the bloody settee._

Jimmy had to pause in reading, because the tears had welled in his eyes and kept him from seeing straight. He inhaled a sharp breath and smiled widely, grinning from ear to ear. He exhaled a mixture of a laugh and a soft sob and covered his mouth with his fist, eyes skimming over the next few scratches of words…

_Secondly, thank you._

_You never gave up on me, even as I proved to be a nuisance, no good to myself or anyone else around me. Without your loyalty, I may have tried to off myself much sooner and may have even succeeded in the task. Your encouraging words kept me afloat in the dark sea of Hades, even when I was hanging on to the driftwood by only my fingertips. And it is thanks to you, Jimmy, and no one else, that I am alive today to write this letter to you._

_I am doing significantly better now than where you left me nearly a year a go. The nightmares have stopped, and I can smile again. In fact, just to prove it to you, I have included a photograph of such in this letter. A photo that is for your eyes only, lest we want our little ruse to backfire. Callum snapped the bloody shot while we took a trip to Brighton a couple of months back. I have a copy tucked away in a book to go back to every time I feel like I can't..._

Jimmy found said picture tucked away at the end. He smiled widely at the face staring back at him with a wide smile. Thomas looked positively healthy with bright eyes glistening under the shade of his fedora. Callum seemed to have caught him off guard, because Thomas looked completely innocent and… _happy_. He stroked his thumb over face as if he could actually feel him there again. If only.

_Speaking of the bloody old man, he's doing quite well. His limp's gotten worse, and I've urged him to get a cane and some medical attention for it. (Because my knowledge as a medic only goes so far, and it has been years since the war.) He's awfully stubborn, though, and told me to sod off a lot. It was actually an amusing scenario. Fortunately, he has heeded my advice and took the final step he needed into true old-aged territory. (As if forty-three is really old!) Every time now he likes to comment about my age, I just bring up the cane. We are quite a peculiar pair, but he does make me awfully happy. I don't think I've ever laughed as much in my entire life as I do when I'm with him._

_So I have to thank you for that, too. Even though once upon a time I thought I may spend the rest of my life with, I'm grateful of the selflessness you had that fateful night, Jimmy._

_Also, Callum urges me to let you know that he is always into trying 'new things' should you come visit during your week off this year. You are naturally more than welcome. In fact, we would be insulted if you didn't show. (And should your week already been spent by this time, we expect you to visit some time during Lady Rose's Season. I am quite sure that if you talked to dear Tom, he and Lord Grantham would allow you the time off under these particular strange circumstances.)_

_You may have noticed that there is a significant amount of money tucked away into this envelope. I have written a page specifically meant for Lord Grantham and for Tom Branson. If you could be a darling and deliver it to them, I would be most grateful. You see I wish to apologize for ruining one of the chairs as well as the rugs with my excessive bleeding. Though, between you and I, it felt like the best – pardon the obscenity – fuck you to the family I have always wanted to give… Be sure to leave this part out when giving them the note. Although they do not need the money, I felt it was at least the principle. What would my mother say if I didn't try to reconcile? Besides, I do also owe them for their whole charade._

_Anyway, Jimmy… Thanks to you, I am truly happy. I can never thank you enough for that, honestly, even though I may try._

_Please do know if we are to be expecting your company sometime soon, and I have no problem corresponding with you after this letter, should you wish to continue to speak. I would whole-heartedly understand if you chose to burn this letter upon reading, but is it selfish of me to think you would do otherwise?_

_I hope you are well. I wish to know all about the Downton gossip since my departure. You would chuckle to know what kind of codswallop goes on in London. The papers don't do this nonsense justice, nor can I in a letter. How has Mrs. Hughes been fairing? Is Anna with child? Did Alfred man up and finally asked Daisy to be his sweetheart? (Tell him I will personally "haunt" him if he hasn't and doesn't in the near future.) How big has Little Miss Sybil grown? Can she speak yet? Has her father found anyone yet? And what of Lady Mary and George? (Not that I really care. It just feels polite to ask about her, considering I was friendly with the late Mr. Matthew Crawley.)_

_Oh, and lastly: has the Dowager croaked yet? Though I would imagine if that were so, it would be written on a large sign and draped over Parliament._

Jimmy had to stifle his laughter. It was so wonderful to read that Thomas was in good spirits. It had been so long since he had encountered his witty humor. He wiped his tears before they dripped down onto the page, and he turned his attention to the final part of the letter.

_I do hope to hear from you soon, Jimmy. It would make me even happier to know that you are doing all right after all of this._

_And remember, I will always love you._

_Sincerely (and Always) Yours,_

_T. Duncan_

_P. S: I go by Thom Duncan now. It's awfully strange, but we can't have a Thomas Barrow running around London whilst he's lying dead in Downton, can we?_

_P. P. S: Do let me know that you've taken my beautiful lamp into your custody. I will heartbroken if I learn that it was thrown away._

_P. P. P. S: Feel free to take some money and pocket it, and consider it a combined birthday and Christmas present from me. Not too much, though. I know how you are with gambling._

"You bastard," Jimmy said lowly, erupting in a fit of chuckles. He put a hand over his face and shook his head. He had never expected to hear from Thomas again, especially after the way they parted the year before…

Jimmy hadn't felt at ease with the way Thomas had dismissed him, so he closely listened against his door. It had been quiet, but then he heard a soft noise—it could have been anything, but it sounded like a gasp of… of _pain_. He waited, hearing the door across the hall creak open, and hear the careful footsteps as someone exited their room. It didn't stop there.

Curious and nervous Jimmy opened his door and turned on his room light to gaze out into the hallway. When he was greeted with a trail of blood, he knew the worst must have occurred. This was certainly not and accident. He tried to think, not really able to think straight at the idea that Thomas was bleeding all over the house. He grabbed one of his shirts from off the chair in his room and hurried off after him, debating if he should make a lot of noise or not. He chose not to, fearing that the excitement may make the sick under-butler do something even more rash. (Although this—_this_ was a pretty bad situation to start with.)

He paused on the stairs, taking note as Thomas, stumbling, spoke to no one. He waved his hands around emphatically as if he were, and Jimmy's brows furrowed. Though he could see from here that the man was covered in his own blood, and it made him choke back a sob. How could he do something so stupid? He should have urged him to open the damn door. The under-butler made his way into the family's sitting room, and Jimmy hurried after him, not caring if Thomas saw him at this point.

When he finally made it him, Jimmy started crying.

"_Thomas," he urged, shaking him. "Thomas! Thomas, please, you have to wake up—I fear you will never if you don't now!"_

_"Edward…?" The dazed man murmured, "Edward… it's cold…"_

_Jimmy grabbed his wrist and ripped the shirt, tying it around the wound, remembering what they had done in the war for wounds. He did the same to his other wrist and grabbed Thomas' face. "It's me, it's Jimmy. Please stay awake, Thomas. Please—!"_

The next few hours were the longest in Jimmy's entire life. He had found the strength to leave Thomas and go off to find Tom, who in turn grabbed Robert, and the three had contacted Clarkson and hurriedly brought him into the village.

Somehow, by some miracle, they had saved him. Thomas looked so pale and broken on the sheets there, head lulled to the side, his wrists sprawled out next to him. But he was still breathing, a faint rise and fall of his chest showing that. Jimmy could barely hold it together, and Tom grabbed onto his shoulder, squeezing as he wiped the tears from his eyes. Robert had been talking to Clarkson away from them, unsure how to act.

"_He can't stay here. It's obvious he'll just try again—" Jimmy said, his voice broken. "He's got to go somewhere, but—but where?"_

"…_I know." Tom answered. "There's another man who likes Thomas very much and wanted to take him away." _

"_What?" Jimmy's eyes widened as he turned to Irishman. "So—" He paused, a plan formulating. "Thomas died tonight."_

"_Pardon – he's right – he's right there, James."_

"_No," Jimmy said, turning to Thomas. "I found him too late, and he passed." His voice caught in his throat, "I suppose Dr. Clarkson won't want to move him for a few days, so while we're having the funeral, this man—Thomas' friend—can come whisk him away. Hopefully to happiness. Of course we can't be certain, but Downton—he—he can't stay here. Carson…" He broke into sobs, putting his hands over his face._

_His plan, however, was brilliant. _

Robert had gone along with it and made all of the arrangements. Tom called Callum and explained what happened, and Jimmy acted the part well enough (partly because Thomas _was_ leaving him forever, and that was a great sadness for him). He asked for the evenings off for the next couple of days, and Mrs. Hughes graciously allowed him. He would visit Thomas until the other man regained consciousness, and when he did he explained everything.

"_I don't—I don't understand—" Thomas said weakly, staring up at him with those same fearful eyes. "So you—"_

"_Thomas," Jimmy interrupted and put a finger against his lips. "Shh, just listen. Downton is a place of pain. We're giving you another chance to live life away from here. Mr. Tyler is eager to teach you his work." He took Thomas' hand in his own, stroking it, feeling the tears in his eyes. "I love you so terribly, and I can't see you destroy yourself like this. That's why you have to go, Thomas. I know you don't understand now, but you will in time." He brought Thomas' hand to his lips and kissed every finger gingerly. _

_When he looked back up, he saw a completely different expression on the broken man's face. There was a strange look in his eyes—not bad—but … Jimmy couldn't remember if he'd ever seen that look before. "You really do love me." He said cautiously, letting the statement hang in the air. It was like everything clicked, as if it all suddenly made sense. "… I can't stay here." He admitted, lowly, squeezing the blond's hand. "You're so very right, Jimmy… and only now I see." He glanced down to the bandages around his wrists. "What… what have I done?"_

"_It's okay, Thomas." Jimmy said, smiling widely, though tears were trickling down his cheeks. He gently kissed his wrist and moved closer to him. "You're going to be fine now. See, even we sinners deserve happiness." _

"_But Jimmy, what about you?" Thomas turned to look at him, a blind innocence shining in his blue eyes. "Won't you come with me?"_

"_I'm afraid not. As much as I want to…" He cupped his cheek, brushing his thumb over it. "Oh, Thomas, you gave me such a fright."_

"_I'm so sorry, Jimmy." His voice was raw with emotion. "So very sorry about all of this. I—"_

_Jimmy kissed him as if it was the only way to shut Thomas up. The other responded eagerly, and they kissed languidly for a moment before he pulled away. "Take that to remember me by." He said softly, resting his head down so that their foreheads touched. _

Callum came the day of the funeral and took Thomas away in the confusion. That didn't make it hurt any less, but he knew that it would be the best for everyone, especially Thomas. To hear from him now gave him new hope, though, that he might see the other again.

He took another look of the photograph, grinning as Thomas gazed away from the camera, eying the beach it seemed. He _knew_ Thomas had said to keep it secret, but he actually couldn't live with the image imprinted in his mind of Daisy screaming bloody murder that dreadful day. So after putting away the letter and money, Jimmy stalked down the stairs, poking his head into the kitchen.

"Mrs. Patmore," He addressed the lovely portly cook, "may I borrow Daisy for a moment?"

"What do you want with my sweetheart?" Alfred chimed from the opposite side of the table, chopping vegetables. It was funny; within the last year, Carson had allowed the ginger to help prepare luncheon if he would serve every dinner. When Ivy finally left to be an assistant cook elswhere, the big lug realized how much he had fancied Daisy. So Thomas wouldn't have to haunt him after all, because the mousy brunette was happier now. To a degree, anyway.

"I have to ask her a private question. No worries, Alfred. I'm not trying to steal her from you…"

"I suppose I can spare her for a few minutes, but make it quick, James," Patmore said over Alfred. "Go on, Daisy."

Daisy playfully rolled her eyes at Alfred before exiting the kitchen. "What is it, Jimmy?"

"Now, you have to promise me to keep quiet about this…"

* * *

"Well, I dare say, the chap is doing well." Robert said, eying the hefty amount of money in his hand. "I don't know why he felt compelled to give us this, but…" He paused, shaking his head, smiling softly. "He was always a good man. It is a shame we didn't realize it earlier."

Tom sat with Sybbie in his lap, smiling as he held his daughter in his arms. She pouted at him; she wanted to play in the snow outside, but he told her that they would have to wait because her new coat hadn't come in from London yet. "What does he say?"

"Not much. I imagine his letter to our James is much more descriptive of his endeavors over the past year… But he says he is doing much better now, and he thanks us—especially you—for all of the help that we gave him during his time of need."

"Perhaps I'll make a visit in person as a response." Tom grinned. He eyed his daughter. "Do you want to see your Uncle Thomas?"

"I have an Unca Thomas!?" Sybbie's eyes widened.

"Yes, love. You don't remember him, but he was very fond of you when you were a wee bairn…"

* * *

Thom glanced over the writing with a smile. He shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, his smile only growing wider as the penmanship became more erratic. A pair of arms draped over his shoulders, and a kiss was pressed against his head. "What's that?" A voice said in his ear. "Who's written?"

"It seems Jimmy told dear Daisy the truth. She's writing to tell me that I'm a right bastard and that she misses me." Even though he knew he should be angry with Jimmy for spilling the secret, he felt relieved that she knew the truth. He could only imagine what happened on the day of his funeral. He sighed softly, leaning back into the other man's touch, humming in approval as the other gave him a shoulder rub. "I've also a letter from the man himself."

Callum's fingers traveled up to his neck, pressing in spots that made Thom groan in pleasure. He smirked at his handiwork. "And, what's he say, darling?"

"He said he's got his week this coming April. The third week, I believe. He says he'll write for sleeping arrangements," He paused, glancing up at him, smirking, "Don't get excited," he added playfully before continuing, "a couple of weeks beforehand."

"We have enough room here if he feels comfortable." Callum leaned in, capturing Thom's lips into a gentle upside-down kiss. He pulled away. "What else does he say?"

"He's hesitant to accept your offer without actually meeting you in person." Thom stared into those beautiful eyes, sighing at the adoration gleaming in them. "Though I'm certain he'll warm up to in a day's time." He paused, winking, "I know _I_ did."

It didn't pain Thomas to think about that time now. Of course, there would always be scars—both physically and emotionally—but he had overcome all of his fears. The first month had been the worst, especially the first days after leaving Downton. Callum canceled all of his appointments for the first two weeks and spent every waking moment with Thomas, helping him through the nightmares and memories. He had been so terrified that he would scare Callum away, that one morning he would wake up and the other would be gone and tired of him; however, he was proven otherwise. The older man stayed with him and won his way into Thomas' heart.

Once Callum had proved that he wasn't going away and that he was trustworthy, they talked about everything—the worthlessness, the self-hate, the fear of being homosexual, and then their situation and what _this_ would mean. There was no doubt that Callum loved him, was devoted to him even, and Thomas knew that in time he would learn to love Callum in return. He thought of Jimmy from time to time, but every time he had, it spurred bad memories. He remember bleeding out on the settee, staring up weakly as a morphed image of Edward and Jimmy spoke to him, trying to keep him awake and simultaneously telling him to sleep. But then Edward disappeared (and hadn't returned since), and Jimmy was there, begging him to stay awake—something had snapped inside of him and he did.

In time, he slowly became _himself_ again. Callum told him his duties and explained to him the things he didn't quite know how to do, but he had a knack for learning quickly and excelled as his assistant. He was scheduling appointments and dealing with clients over the phone, and even used the bloody typewriter to transcribe Callum's notes for court. He always got a nice cut of the profits, and together they lived comfortably—and dare Thomas say it—happily. By the fourth month, he was Thomas Barrow again—

But not quite. In fact, he had changed a lot after his unfortunate encounter, but it had been for the better. Still clever, still with a sharp tongue, but he was much kinder and more accommodating. Hell, he was even more trusting. He had friends with people in Callum's circle, and he even made some _other _friends in London that liked spending time with him. He smiled more and laughed and told jokes and learned to trust the world. Of course, he would always have his guard up, but he didn't have to hide anymore. It was a strange feeling indeed. Jimmy had been right; this second chance as _Thom Duncan_ had been worth it after all.

"How about we go to bed? It's getting late…" Callum said, brushing his fingers down Thomas' cheek. "And I can show you partly _why_ you feel for me in a day." He winked, ghosting his nails over the other's porcelain skin. "Then you can lull me to sleep with the rest of young Master Kent's letter." He grinned.

Thomas smacked his hand away and gave a hearty laugh. He got up from his chair, leaving the letter there as he wrapped his arms around his lover's waist. "I'm sure Jimmy would enjoy it if you called him that when you meet." He chuckled into Callum's lips as they kissed. He was led into the bedroom, where Callum took the time to kiss all over his body, brushing his lips all over his scars as he did every time they made love, telling him that he was still so very beautiful and that these only made him a stronger man. Thom took pride in 'Sinner,' because he would rather be a sinner and be happy than be in a miserable forced heterosexual relationship.

Rhys Hayden was a thing of the past, and Thomas rather preferred it that way. After making love with Callum, they lay next to each other, both smoking a cigarette, and made idle chat about what they would do with their day off. Callum reached forward, entwining their fingers and brushing his thumb over his forefinger.

Thomas finally had somewhere and someone to call home, and it was a lovely feeling indeed.

* * *

The door creaked open, spilling light into their dim hallway. (Thomas made a mental note to have Callum fix the bloody light, because there was no way he was getting on a ladder, even if he wasn't the one with the limp.) He smirked at the nervous figure anxiously tapping his foot. Familiar blond hair glistened in the sun, and the man gave him a timid smile, quite unsure what to expect from him. In his hand was a small suitcase, enough for a week's worth of clothing, but he and Callum had been talking about what they hoped for the other's future…

Ah, no matter. There were more important things to deal with right now.

"Hello, Jimmy." He spoke softly, smiling at him.

"Hello, Thomas."

_**It was always you  
**__**Falling for me.  
**__**Now there's always time  
**__**Calling for me.  
**__**I'm the light  
**__**Blinking at the end of the road.  
**__**Blink back to let me know.**_

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone who followed this story. It is an absolute wonderful feeling to be finished to it, and I wouldn't have if it wasn't for you lovely reviewers and followers. Thank you for following me and Thomas on this journey, and I hope this ending was fulfilling.

Until next time. xo


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